


A Historian of Clan Wren

by aMAXiMINalist



Series: History (and Legends) of Clan Wren [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Art Philosophy, Clone Wars era, F/M, Family Epic, Family History, Mandalorian Culture, Romance, Toward Rebels Era, Tragedy, heritage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 34,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aMAXiMINalist/pseuds/aMAXiMINalist
Summary: In Mandalorian culture, artists served as loyal historians for the exploits of warrior.He was a post-grad artist, petty repair man struggling to pay rent. Suddenly, he was a live-in historian for Clan Wren, as the illustrator of their exploits. Suddenly, he was painting Countess Ursa Wren's portrait. Suddenly, he was trading marital vows with Ursa Wren. Suddenly, he hoped for Ursa Wren to come home safely from the war. Suddenly, he was the father of two warriors, Tristan and Sabine Wren. Suddenly, he was teaching his daughter to illustrate their family as the Empire's shadow closed on the Wrens. Suddenly, he realized that he had married into tragedy as the Empire's shadow swallowed the dignity of his family.





	1. Historian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EyeLoch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeLoch/gifts).



> This fanfiction originated from [a running joke](http://amaximinalist.tumblr.com/post/163287507591/so-about-clan-wrens-involvement-with-terrorist) on my [Tumblr](http://amaximinalist.tumblr.com/) that evolved into a serious multi-chapter-worthy curiosity regarding the Mandalorian cultural dynamics of Ursa Wren and her marriage to her husband. Well, look how a humorous joke inspired what is perhaps one of my most ambitious fanfiction yet. 
> 
> The info then I had to go off was that sources indicate that Sabine's Father, who is slated for an on-screen appearance on Star Wars Rebels Season 4, _seemingly_ a mostly non-combat person and implied to be the artist that inspired Sabine Wren and worked on the mosaic of Ursa Wren in her throne room.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the quarters nicer than his Sundari apartment, the landscape of Krownest disenchanted him.

_Mandalore in motion, like a bottomless solid puzzle to the eye. Sundari. A city of blue, white, and gray-shaded cubes and protruding rectangles of sharp edges. At first glance, it has the appearance of a cubism piece, while in truth, it is a impressionistic piece, an accurate rendering of the design and reign of the New Mandalorian era, where Duchess Satine Kyrze decreed a rebirth of Mandalore, a new world order to mature from the ashes of its past._

What he didn't illustrate on his canvas was the procession of Mandalorian protesters, marching in a visible circle, waving signs with their perverted portrait of the Duchess, her eyes blacked out.

Their political march obstructed the expanse of the view, a hindrance--or addendum--to Mandalore's dimensions. But otherwise, he knew Sundari by memory, painting despite the obstruction of protesters. He preferred Sundari without the fire of politics, so the political stage never made its appearance in the geometric shapes of his impressionistic craft.

Over his shoulder, he felt the heavy presence of a passing stranger glancing at his in-progress work. That was common. In fact, he had been painting in public areas as of subtle advertisement.

That stranger staring over his shoulder was his chance. He could place down his paintbrush. But maybe he should continue the motions of professionalism and keep the brushstrokes going for a few seconds more.

He decided to finish coloring in the silver-blue of a foundation. Then he turned to the man and held out a business card.

"Portraits, weddings, experimental, murals, mosaics. I specialize in tech installations too."

Three out of a hundred recipients of his business card contacted him. The more cards he could get into the hands of potential clients, the better he could win the lottery of a deal.

But the man didn't even accept. 

Just another disinterested person, no lottery chances here. So the artist turned back to his impressionism of Sundari.

Yet the stranger sure seemed interested enough to inquire, "Artist, tell me, do you have an opinion of warriors culture?"

He kept his eyes on the painted Sundari, filling in the cavity of another building. This struck him as a random political probing, a conversational cue that nosed around his stance, daring the other into a debate. What answer did this man wanted? Duchess Satine had started a controversial campaign to ban the warrior-focused curriculum, only reserving the topic of warrior ways for the history books, which even disgruntled some of his pro-peace friends ("We can't lose that history!"). 

He thought of a museum gallery of armored Mandalorians in their prideful shapes, poise in front of the halo of stars. "Warrior history makes for classic art. It's quite underrated really." He couldn't be too sure if that was the "right" comment. Vague enough.

"Do you know of the honorable Countess San Wren?"

Familiar, but where? 

"Yes."

"Can you do funeral?"

An instinct told him not to hesitate in blurting, "Yes."

"I'm of Clan Wren."

* * *

He did straightforward portraits and weddings, but the craft of a  _momento mori_ was expert level. He did not fib, he had done a few hypothetical practiced pieces in his school, the prompts simple: A father who loved libraries, an actress who craved the spotlight, a tea-lover with a passion for theater. However, due to their completionist grade nature, there was no reliable measurement of his competency in this craft.

The name of "Wren" had sounded familiar and research on the Holo-net refreshed his memory: Clan Wren was a name that had made few appearance on the Holo-nets, enough to put it on prominence around Sundari, though scant enough it didn't linger in his consciousness. It popped up on the list of Clans that have disagreed with Duchess Satine Kyrze's rule, an old money family that retained its aristocracy and profit and political prowess.

Clan Wren was wealthy enough to fund his trip to their headquarters on the planet of Krownest. Admittedly, he found that borderline spendthrift, but he didn't say that. And what did he know, he wasn't of a Clan member with money at his whims.

But enticing as an all-expense paid trip to a Clan stronghold was, he calculated the risk, cautious not to think of it as a lottery of a free vacation. He called the repair shop and called in sick, knowing well that he could risk permanent unemployment. But a commission for a Clan was something he could not turn down, a challenge that couldn't go unanswered, and a hefty paycheck that could fulfill three months worth of rent and meals and go toward his school debt--he tried not to hope that he could impress the Clan into becoming a frequent client. He made a game plan to scour for employment at another repair shop.

He rarely traveled, even if exploration was one of the proclaimed marks of the ideal immersive artist, for he preferred to seek close sources in books and holos for research of foreign subjects to depict. But he had to contain himself, stifle back any boasting to his friends, for he had to adhere to the confidentiality of his trip to the seat of an ancient Clan.

In the air, through the window, the pearl-whiteness of this new territory exhilarated his heart, his grin superimposed on the window of the rolling scenery. But once his boot-clad foot sunk into the snow, the muteness of the scenery disenchanted him, more so than the icy temperature, of which he was at least warned about to pack a coat. To sustain his professionalism, he forced a solid polite smile and tried not to clutch himself in the cold as he walked through the snow to the entrance of the headquarters, which was itself was an acquired taste with meritable qualities in its wall of glass and geometric design.

Only the color of the Wren armors stuck out, a tint of gold among dull white, and seeing these warriors was like time-traveling, though it was a silly notion. While the warrior attire was not banned by New Mandalore laws-- _yet_ , some political preachers bemoaned on the Holo-nets--warrior-aligned Clans forgo their armor on the surface of Mandalore to avoid disapproval of the pro-peace environment. 

Castro Wren, the man who impromptu employed him on Sundari, lead him down a hallway. Passing gold-cladded Wrens glanced at him apathetically through their cold visors and continued about their business.

* * *

_Well, this is a five-star hotel, compared to my shack on Sundari. Nice to start somewhere without my plague of paint stains. Better not stain that place._

His only misgiving about his quarters was the open window, revealing that damned shape-limited landscape. His eyes must have really melded with the sharp deepness of Sundari. But before his hands made it to the window flap, a blast, too soft to alarm, loud enough to startle, sent a mild shudder up his spine.

In the gray of dusk, he could see the blur of a person, presumably a Wren, the stick of their arm raised with an instrument that fired a blaze of crimson upward. _Don't they have a target practice soundproof room? Or is that weather just more soundproof?_

Better get used to this. He shut out the dull scenery, the sight of the stranger Wren, though it did not damp out much of the beats of the distant blaster.

He racked up his easel and canvas in the center of the room and arranged his all his tubes of red, blue, black, gold, gray, etcetera.

He focused his eyes on the blankness of the canvas. Nothing. So far.

Popping off his boots, he threw himself, zipped-up in his coat and all, onto his bed and shut his eyes, hoping to drift off.

Echoing in his head, was the pop of gunfire and the Wren's order, perhaps his greatest challenge of his meager freelance art career.

_"On behalf of the late Countess's eldest daughter, this is her request. Countess and Chieftess San Wren, a warrior, loved the blackness and fire of the war field, Veteran of the Mandalorian Civil War. Put a Shriek-hawk somewhere. The Chieftess-to-be will decide whether your work satisfies her."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Comments and dialogue about Mandalorian culture appreciated._


	2. (Con)Descension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three tries, limited input from Countess Ursa Wren.

_The late Chieftess lying in an outline of ashes, golden armor aglow, she is staring up at the flaming Shriek-hawk in the sky._  

"It's an insult." He restrained himself from burying his face behind the coarse canvas. He frakked up. And he really should've removed his paint-splattered smock.

"Mother doesn't look dignified." On a platform of stairs, was a throne. Sitting on that throne, was an urn of gold. Next to the throne was a Wren in gold armor, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, the right-hand woman of her mother's ashes.

"What do you despise about it, Countess?" Castro Wren had done the speaking for him before his mouth could formulate any words.

 _How do I **improve it?**  _He had to remind himself, this was not unusual and he knew better. First tries weren't supposed to perfectly aligned with the wishes. First tries served as part of the process, the chance for the client to request corrections, not because of faults but to align closely to the desire result. He had clients that uttered, "More orange, or less blue," or "Changed my mind, don't want that sun, less stars."

But those clients looked him in the eyes. This latest client, the Chieftess-to-be on a higher plane, looked down on him.

The artist's eyes peeped over the square of canvas to observe the ponderous pucker of her lips.

"Cousin, Mother would've like less black, even if it was her color." She looked at a relative standing at the foot of the platform. "Sasha?"

"Sister," replied a helmeted Wren at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm no expert in these matters. What about the others?"

"Where's the blood?" Remarked a Wren.

"More black." Said another.

"Um, more blood and black?"

"Less black."

"More fire."

The artist wanted to chew on the canvas and swallow the colors. He should've known that a _momento mori_ for a Clan should be designed to please not a family unit of three or five, but twelve.

"Countess? Your final word?"

"As I said, give Mother her dignity. She wouldn't be too asleep on the battlefield." She rubbed her eyes. "Castro, cousin, I'm giving this man another few days to absorb what I said. I, we, don't have much time. We have to talk about the collaboration with Clan Vizsla."

* * *

He drummed his fingers on the side of his canvas, discerning the muffles of some business meeting behind the doors. He had the foresight to remove his stained smock and take a shower. 

At the pneumatic hiss of the automatic doors, it was near his opportunity to enter. 

He was surprised by a procession of dark-armored Mandalorians, with their helmets under their arm, some with wolves on their chest-plates, departing.

He nearly collided into tall dark-armor with a white Mandalorian wolf on the chest. He muttered an apology, braced himself for impact, but the dark-clad warrior didn't find him worthy of taking offense and simply walked passed him.

The Countess remained poise next to the seated-urn, as if she had been situated there for the past three days since she called his first try an insult. At first, she gazed past him like he was irrelevant furniture, presumably her thoughts on the dark-armors departure.

Once she processed his presence in the room, she shot him a "What is the meaning of this?" glare.

He wanted to dash, but that would make him more undignified than he already was. "Forgive me, a-hem, Chieftess-"

Her eyes flew open with offense, and he could not be sure how he triggered her incredulousness but judging by the timing of his words...

"Apologies, _Countess_ ," He cleared his throat at this hasty correction. "But I have the-your-revision ready."

_The shape of the late Chieftess, not on ashes, but mid-air, on the back of a fiery Shriek-hawk in flight, over an ashen field, she is reaching toward the stars-_

"Close. But mother never wanted to look like she was sleeping. It's less of an insult to her."

She passed a glance at the urn on the throne.

And he was left outside of the room, hearing the muffles of a resumed conversation between Clan members. He stood out there, for an estimable ten minutes, waiting for something that never emerged, before he marched back to his quarters, threw on his wet-paint smock, set up another blank canvas, stared into the white, then flung himself, in smock and all, into his bed.

* * *

_The shape of the late Chieftess mid-air, but melding with the Shriek-hawk, transforming or bonding with it, ascending into the stars._

"More dignity." The Countess was still next to the throne, with helmet under her arm, and she dismissed him with a wave, as if shooing away a piece of discarded furniture. 

The forecast circled around his head: A few more days, another grimace, a terse critique or cutting input that did little to assist.

"Wait, Countess." He was mid-turn when the thoughts flew out of his lips, and re-oriented himself to face her. "If you could tell me what you want..."

All visors and eyes turned to him, the Countess's eyes, the most incendiary.

"Give me the extra details you want."

"It's not what _I_ want. It's what Mother wants." 

_You can only guess what your mother wanted._

"I worked with the preferences Sir Castro Wren has given to me." He thought suddenly of Castro Wren, vanished to Sundari for business. "I followed them, but you have not been satisfied. If you can tell me what to add, I can do right by it and I won't waste your time anymore."

The Chieftess-to-be rubbed her chin,

And then she slammed her helmet down on the armrest of the throne with a _clank_ , the visor angled to keep surveilling the Wren-populated chamber, next to the ashes of a late warrior. Her boots emitted fatal jangling  _thuds_  as she descended, now close enough that she eclipsed the light over the surrealism of her mother transforming into a Shriek-hawk, close enough that she could make eye contact with the brushstroke rendition of her mother's spirit--enough to shoot eye contact with him. In the instance her eyes did burn upon his, he noted the shade of bags beneath her eyes, which reminded him of his professors who feigned alertness and swallowed cups of caf to survive through the day.

"You know what. I'm not satisfied," she mused, icily, with an edge of song to it, mildly reveling in her brutal honesty. "I'll never be." She stared into her mother's painted spirit as if she was admiring her own reflection in a mirror.

"I'll take it, _as it is_." He had been given up on. She settled for less because he lost any trust that he could fix this. 

Robbed of any vocal pleas, which circulating through his head, he wanted to collapse into the ashen scenery of his blunder, the failed masterpiece, the call he should've ignored. There was cheap criticism, "I don't like it." Then there was constructive criticism, those from his professors' lips, urging him to adjust his techniques to be "better than you already are." Then there was this vocal nihilism. 

The Countess's proceeding actions then baffled him, and judging by the sighs and gasps by the surrounding Wrens, they were shocked.

The Countess relieved him of the weight of the canvas with one hand, her boots emitting its authoritative _thuds_ as she recollected herself to the height of the throne, then she planted the _momento mori_ right on the throne, behind the urn containing her predecessor.

"All right, now that business is taken care of. We can go back to the discussions with the trade. I can't keep Clan Vizsla waiting..." She leaned on the side of the throne, half-resting.

Rationality told him that this was his cue to step out, duck from the confidentiality from the Wren trades, to exclude himself at last from the conversation. But he just stared, vision focused on a stair step of the throne area, his ankles unable to move.

"So it's imperative I'll speak to Governor Vizsla on Concordia and make the negotiation... _why are you still here_?" From the inflection of her voice, it took a few seconds for him to realize she had called upon him, like he was a beetle that had yet to be swatted, and all Wren eyes on him again.

"You may go." 

Nothing.

"This is not your place."

Nothing.

Then she cleared her throat, preparing her next experimental words. "Thank you."

He met her eyes. 

" _Thank you,_ for your service." This was a new pace of delivery in her voice, betraying a borderline capacity for mellowness without losing its austerity.

But he was not at all persuaded into movement until, " _I_   _apologize_  for wasting _your_ time. Go in peace."

That de-nailed his ankles, this spell, though the stiffness in his feet lingering, and the words of the Wrens, her instructions for her family, faded into mutterings behind the door then dissolved into a memory of ambiance as he sheltered himself in his quarters. _Time, what time? Time to just wait?_

Despite looking forward to his eventual dismissal and departure from the scenery, he did not disassemble his easel and set up another blank canvas. He listened for the wind, for the gunfire of the outdoor anonymous Wren, but the Krownest night was devoid and he found enough peace.


	3. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the interrogation room, he braced himself for reproach from the Countess, only to receive a job interview.

How did he end up on a cold chair in a Clan's interrogation room with the eerie mirror that served as a one-way window for the outside? How did he end up staring into the polished cave-dark visor of a Clan member sitting across from him?

"I'll revise it for the Countess's liking, no additional charges." He trained himself to accept dismissals and compensate, fall into a last resort to avert a demand for a refund.

No words, no reprieve, no rebuke emitted from the helmet. 

"I apologize to the Countess."

"You," she enunciated, patting her chest-plate and gesturing toward him, "didn't specify which Countess? My sister, or me?" She plucked the helmet off, revealing a dark hair bundled in a tight pony-tail and a countenance bearing her sister's familiar measure of stoicism but more lax into a tranquil gaze.

"Oh um... your sister, of course, the Chieftess, oh, the Chieftess- _apparent_." Her brows lifted over his correction. It amused her to watch him sputter his responses.

"Sorry, couldn't resist." She allowed a more causal tone that matched her youthful university-undergrad appearance. "I am Countess Sasha, the second-in-command to my elder sister. She's occupied with Clan Vizsla now so I'm doing this on behalf of her."

This Countess's little sport of mischief did relieve him, even would've provoked a light chuckle, if weren't for the context of the situation and the looming consequences. "I'll revise the portrait as soon as I can, ASAP." But the soles of his feet pushed onto the floor. _Just turn me down, don't have to pay me, send me back to my university debts on Sundari, back to my possible eviction and starvation, but I just want to get out._

"No, disregard that." The younger Countess drummed her fingers on the table.

_Exile me already._

"We want to make an offer beyond monetary compensation. The  _momento mori_  was just an audition."

_Exile me, hold on._

His fingers clenched the knees of his trousers. This could be a deal. A frequent client. Wait, but...

"The Countess insulted-, found it to be an insult."

"We want a permanent  _Illuminator Historian_. We hadn't had one for years. San Wren had intended to hire one during her stint with the Mandalorian Civil War, have someone illuminate her glories, to document the spirit of our family's exploits, but then her eldest daughter, my sister, survived her to carry out this task the best she could, asking our cousin Castro to be on the lookout for an artist in his return to Sundari."

 _Illuminator Historian for a Clan._ Gold, he struck gold, a ticket out of petty repair work, a means to a _fed_ artist, not starving, and a title of honor, even if that aspiration never passed his mind. He won the lottery and now had to figure how to spend the treasure.

"But before you'll commit, we are bound by honor to tell you what this entails." Now she re-secured her helmet, all the facial sternness and cordiality vanishing into the blank warrior stare of her visor.

Of course, winning the lottery is too good to be true.

"I would like to question your motive for accepting this offer so eagerly?"

"For the love of art." Cliche. Better answer something appealing to Clan pride. "And the honor of working with a Clan."

"Really? If you were perceptive before, you'll know that I am the family's lie-detector."

He swallowed. "I was telling the truth. But I should add that getting paid is perhaps a bigger goal than painting for a Clan. I have a debt to my University."

The helmet stared back. He couldn't discern the eyes beneath, but he caught the wind of a possible blink.

"And I want to eat."

The helmet stared, before passing out, "We're bound to inform you that we're favored in many circles, respected to an extent on the surface of Mandalore, respected in trade and commerce in both Inner and Outer Rim of the galaxy. But there are those in oppositions to our views. And we have opposition to other circles as well."

"I can live with that." If that's how they're getting paid to pay him...

"We conduct businesses. Certain businesses. Some outside of the New Mandalorian laws to keep our Clan stable. Now you may pass judgment, but you cannot do anything to intervene."

"I can live with that too." Word was spread around that Mandalore still had work to deal with underground activities. He never reported graffiti artists when he walked passed the alleys and witnessed them vandalizing school property, and he befriended permitless artists who continued their guerilla streaks on public property despite risking constant penalties.

"You have a history of political art?"

"No. I do what I do." Artists who committed vocally to politics, declarations of ideology, in their brushstrokes tended to get mixed reception in society, the brand of "preachiness" according to uneducated circles of critics. Clans like to hunt for artists that aligned with them to cement the integrity, the purity, of the art if the artist had aligned political beliefs. But standards for each Clan varied. 

"I'm a..." Despite technically already receiving the offer, this lottery win, he did not want to lose this gold. "...fairly neutral fellow." Was that right to say?

"Neutral as in the Duchess's idea of  _neutrality?_ " Was that just a curious inquiry desiring clarification? Or an interrogation of his alignment?

 _Say something appropriate._ "I do not have allegiance to a House. I do not have formal allegiance to the Duchess. I'm a flexible-neutral, able to do what your Clan will ask of me."  _To the best of my abilities, considering that momento fiasco._

"You will be in the service of Clan Wren, the leading Countess, me, the rest of our blood, and thus by extension, you will have to depict illustrations that externalize practices and beliefs of  _Aka'liit_ , the Faithful of Old Ways. We are of House Vizsla."

He did the research. Clan Wren was of House Vizsla, which the Holo-records never failed to reiterate its provocative divisiveness in the eyes of the House's outsiders and onlookers and within the arena of the House itself, some with disagreements but loyalty to New Mandalore, and some with full-on derision, loud and long-winded in the Holo-net's daily dispense of political updates, with no acceptance of New Mandalore rule. So this Wren Clan seemed lax enough to not be too strictly adhering to be picky about their Illuminator.

"The business we conduct here might be disagreeable with you. But if this environment does not suit you, inform us, take leave. The information and intel you will replicate for us, of course, is confidential, reserved for the Wren's Archives. Should you depart, we could grant you a strong reference if you are in search of employment. But no leaks of information."

"Got it."

"If secrets are leaked, you'll be suspect. And my wife and I would be skilled in tracking and apprehending you. But my wife is far worse."

"Got it."

"We have authority to imprison you on our grounds. Execution is sanctioned here too. If you commit an offense on our grounds or leak info that's property of Clan business, my wife will be the one to blast a hole in your heart. And having just married recently, I do not know what other capabilities she has, but she'll be sure to blast a hole in your heart."

He swallowed, a python of accusation ensnaring his chest. Clans attached to House Vizsla were notorious for keeping prisoners.

If he played it cool, they would not pin down any suspicion, even if he was an empty abyss of zero criminal intentions. This warrior appeared to be a joking sort, judging by her mischief with the honorifics. One way--not _the_ surefire only way--to defuse the irritation of a dissatisfied client was self-depreciation that catered to their concerns.

So he calculated the risk of responding,

"I got a confession. I'm a spy for the Duchess Satine."

But this feeble grenade of precarious wit only hardened the air between him and the black visor, which reared closer to him, scanning him sharply then-

The chuckles of Countess Sasha Wren bounced, filtered, within the bulk of the helmet, as she slumped her back against the chair.

"I thought so. Welcome to the Wren stronghold. In two days, we require you at the coronation." Now she plucked off her helmet, freeing her relaxed expression, and sniffed in a breath like emerging from a pool for oxygen as she rested her back against the chair. 

Now that worse was over. To resume his professionality, he bothered to ask, "Is... there anything else you need me to know?"

"Nothing else- but as you appear unadjusted to some of the Clan ways," She gave a vague gesture toward him, as if she felt he would understand, forcing him to relive the moment where he implored the Countess, the elder Countess for input, a likely breach of Clan protocol. "Put on your smock for the coronation. It's a formality to signify your title as an Illuminator-Historian." 

A title. He never aspired to a Mandalorian title. He wanted a vocation and means to survive. But the lotto win came with a title.

Before his foot landed out the doorway of the interrogation room, its door already casually unlocked, the young Countess remarked, "Oh, and the Countess, _the_ elder and leading Countess, sends her apologies. She was too occupied to make the time to interview you."

The sound of blaster gunfire outside shuddered him awake through the night but, like disjointed beats coming together into a rhythm, it put him to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some on [my Tumblr](http://amaximinalist.tumblr.com/) saw a preview of the chapter where it was [Castro Wren conducting the "job interview."](http://amaximinalist.tumblr.com/post/162856129653/sneek-peek-at-the-ao3-extended-version-of-the)
> 
> But I choose to swap out the character at the last minute, as during a rewatch of Star Wars Rebels' "Legacy of Mandalore," I listened to Tristan Wren's rant to Sabine and he alludes to the loss of "[our] power in the capitol." So I choose to have that minor character re-situated there to show that the Wrens possess a residential standing on the Mandalore capitol surface itself.
> 
> And another note, to answer to a question [Eyeloch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeLoch) made in the first chapter, no, Castro Wren was not named after Fidel Castro. "Castro" was just a name that rolled off my tongue.


	4. Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the coronation of the new Chieftess, the Illuminator stood at the precipice of Wren history.

No longer did the throne contain the ashes of late Chieftess Countess San Wren, now reportedly soared and bonded with the snow and wind of Krownest by the hands of her daughters. The throne stood vacant, awaiting fulfillment, as a crowd of gold-cladded armored Wren, some clutching their young in their arms, the dollops of armored shades of outside Clans members in attendance, and the only armor-less adult, the Illuminator in snow-white freshly-laundered smock, muttering apologies for bumping into warriors, as he relegated himself to the back.

He judged that the back was best, perhaps for an overview scope, which wasn’t unproductive: _The crown of helmets, predominantly gold, other shades mixed in, staring in anticipation at the empty throne._

But he sidled to the periphery of the crowd for a new angle, but then determined it dissatisfactory to watch from the far side and with nothing remarkable for his brainstorming, so he stole closer to the center of the front.

He swept at his smock, despite the apparel adhering to Countess Sasha’s orders, he considered himself a rebel of stark-white among a crowd of gold, with some black-grays of Vizslas and crimson hues of the Saxons and Kasts.

He realized that the ceremony had commenced once Countess Sasha Wren, whom he identified by the removal of her helmet and her ponytail, emerged and stood at the bottom of platform. 

Then the elder Countess emerged from the back, her trademark stoicism plastered across her expression, her helmet beneath her arm, marching with the dignity of a Clan leader. All eyes on her. She maintained a consistent pace of dignity, a gradual rhythm, except the toe of her boot kicked onto last stair step, perhaps disremembering it was one step higher, and the mannered muteness of the chamber unfortunately permitted that mild stub to echo, the noticeability of the misstep stressed by the accompanying astonished puffs of astonished breaths within helmets, as the Countess, not recoiling her foot back to make the misstep more visible than it already was, opted to delicately scrape her boot against the wall of the stair to reach the top, salvaging dignity.

The elder Countess stepped in front of her throne, with no further incident, condoning her blunder, and with the click of her heels, swerved to face the cluster of gold, crimson, gray, and the speck of plain white, then with an upward motion of her wrist, summoned the lower Countess up to stand with her.

“Your new Chieftess…” Countess Sasha bellowed once she reached the platform, leveled with her sister, and next thing he knew, she was bending her head and descending...

He did not process in time that the room sunk to the floor, not wary that once the Chieftess’s name was called out, this was the bell-toll for all to submit. A flick of panic over this novel social situation kept him standing-up against protocol, even as the periphery of his vision caught the sinking of the crowd. He estimated that every head and helmet had sunk below his knees before he forced himself to sink, to catch up with the warriors to the ground, swallowing his apprehension, envisioning the upright Chieftess dispensing another displeased stare-down.

He rose his head, not catching in time if the Chieftess had even detected his delayed bow, for she was already sinking down to the floor, a speck of gold on a higher plane, reciprocating the crowd's allegiance, a fist on her chest, a pledge for her Clan, her hand not leaving her chest as she rose and gave her first speech as Chieftain.

"When the light of one leader is snuffed out, so another flicker takes its place..." She begun, her gesture extending across the room.

Although she had a well-practiced, authoritative voice for the Holos, a professional voice that could sustain itself for a three-hour recording, it didn't render her rhetoric as particularly memorable for him, for that was far from relevant for his canvas. He did caught the  _Vizsla, for House Vizsla, war, glory, hawk, mother_ , _reclamation of Aka'liit_ , only smidges of potential inspiration, admittedly like sitting through an irrelevant mandatory academy course, like geology. His vision was arrested on the scope of the splendor, the history, the scene, the sound, as the language of Basic and Mand'o faded in-and-out.

And then the speech finally died down with a, "And so I'll carry the Wren torch," and she installed herself upon her birthright, leaving an empty space on the throne, to the reverberations of applause.

Countess Sasha filled in the vacancy at her sister’s side, a clarifying visual to why the throne was devised to be benched-sized. He assumed it was immense to accentuate the grandness of its own leader, which occurred to him as odd to the eye, for it made the leader disproportionately smaller than the throne. But apparently, it was to accommodate more than one leader, prioritizing the higher ranking, but made room for others.

Every Wren, Saxon, Kast, Vizsla, other outside Clan members, lined up to shake the new Wren’s leader gloved hand, passing well-wishes, the youngest Wrens climbing onto her lap, offering congratulations, receiving her gratitude, and although steely in the face, she appeared lax enough to trade smiles, ruffle the hairs of young relatives, invested in this attention than she ever was with the progression of her mother’s _momento mori_.

Standing near the line-up, he was close enough to listen for the soundbites of greetings and her replies of gratitude.

"Mother Wren is so proud."

“You will make Clan Wren proud.”

“Make House Vizsla proud. Governor Vizsla sends his congrats.”

“My Uncle Pre Vizsla sends his congratulations. I look forward to our partnership at the next trade.”

"Thank you, Quen. You're the finest of the Vizslas."

He watched for a new inspiration, as the Chieftess was locked in the conversation with the Vizsla warrior with the white wolf on his chest-plate, keeping the line-up onlookers waiting, though the canvas of his brain was confident with enough ideas.

Nothing of further significance followed since the initiations of congrats. He wandered through the socializing, sipping of exotic teas, swigging of wine, and feeding on appetizers and deserts. He slipped around the conversational circles of Wrens and Wrens, Saxons and Wrens, Kasts and Vizslas, to reach the feast.

He lost track of how immersed he was with the opulence of Clan party meal, the taste of roba pie slice, sucking the sweet exterior of  _Haarshun_ , wondering why this sweet biscuit had to be feel like a hardtack on his teeth (maybe so warriors could prove the strength of their teeth).  

He swallowed a slab of  _Uj'alayi,_ licking the syrup and flecks of nut and dried-fruit crumbs of his fingers, and looked up from his plate to see that there was no longer a line to her, perhaps everyone had their turn with congratulations. And the Vizlsa warrior with the painted wolf was free to engage the Chieftess, who had a plate of desserts and glass of wine sitting on the throne's arm, in a deep conversation.

Confident that nothing more was to transpire, he wrapped up two handfuls-worth of  _Uj'alayi_ in napkins and retired to his quarters, his ready canvas becoming fulfilled.

* * *

The clear but colorless holos of the Archives would show Countess San Wren's successor, her prolonged and measured march to the bench of her birthright, the accidental kick of the stairs before her foot found its destination, her swerve to the crowd, her bow, her pledge.

The shelved paintings in the Archives would show this:

 _-_ _The crown of helmets, predominantly gold, other shades of crimson mixed in, staring up at the woman in glowing gold at the throne._

_\- The new Chieftess, alone, the phantom shape of her mother seated next to her._

_\- A gold hand touching the phantom of many hands, all united with the palm, hands of the Wrens and other Clans._

_A Series: The Coronation of **Countess Ursa Wren**._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I researched the _Uj'alayi_ Mandalorian dessert and _Haarshun_ bread.
> 
> On another note, I wondered if readers noticed that this is the first chapter that fully identifies Ursa Wren's name. If so, feel free to comment on that.


	5. Incomplete Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Illuminator gets distracted from deciphering any worth from the Krownest landscape.

_Now to dig out any aesthetic in this cold desert._

He jammed the legs of his easel right into the thick powder of the snow, deep enough so no sudden wind could knock it. 

 _If this place is what I’m going to call home for a long time..._ He flicked off the mites of frost on his shoulder.

He had to press down hard on his stool into the show so it stabilized at a satisfactory height. 

After managing to arranging his tubes of paints through his shaky hands, he stared into the blank canvas.

_Snow and tree. White and green. The trees would make for depth, emphasize the a destinationless freezing desert- But his fingers freezing, the shapes were distorted._

Then he heard a soft crunch. He looked behind. 

A warrior walking toward him. 

He was not on the clock, but perhaps there was another Wren-related request coming. So he fixated himself on the canvas for maximum professionalism. 

But his hand couldn't find his instrument. His paintbrush was not in his smock pocket. It must have slipped out and vanished in the snow. So instead, he stared into the canvas, figuring when to go back inside and fetch a spare paintbrush. It wasn't unusual for an artist to stare at their incomplete work, artists had to be audacious enough to pause in public should progress come to a halt, for a contemplative appearance was professional.

The warrior's boots churned on the ice and their footsteps ended. 

"You're the Illuminator." She said through a mechanical reverb in her helmet.

When he turned, her hand was toward him. There sat his frost-covered paintbrush.

He accepted. "Thank you, m'am, and yes I believe I was hired to be that." Play it casual, don't betray anxiety.

She removed her helmet and he thought his chair would collapse and he'll sink into the snow. He chided himself for not seeing it before, for not recognizing the shape and the declarative inflection at the coronation. Her frown was frozen like the planet itself, like something sour rolled in her mouth, which could be ready to spill out another scathing critique.

Reflexively, he bobbed his head in a rapid minor bow. "Countess Ursa Wren." 

"I believe you didn't approach me for a handshake at the coronation."

"Was I supposed-?"

"It's tradition, but optional." Her grimace was a copy-paste of the time she scrutinized her mother's _Momento_. "Had you’ve been perceptive as you are with your painted works, you would've noticed I’ve beckoned you."

His cheeks boiled to the point he thought the flakes of frost dripped from his face, heavy sweat.

“Apologies, I didn’t realize I would be noticed.”

“You were a white among colors.” He glanced down at his gray-stained smock. “You stood out. You were preoccupied with the dessert.” This Countess really had a strong surveillance over him, though this might as well be expected in the ability of a Clan leader.

"Apologies, I wasn’t a- I'm not a Wren, not of any Clan, I didn't think I would be permitted."

“ _Everyone_ is _welcomed_ to shake the hand of a Chieftess,” she expounded. “If you researched our Archives, you'll get quite the education."

“I’ll do that, Countess.” It was the duty of an artist to get better.

She re-extended her gloved hand for a handshake, her hand rising with purpose, a pace clearly measured to command his notice. He understood that he had to compensate for his unintentional impudence in customs.

But he stared down at her waiting palm, not finding his worth yet. Almost comically, her mid-air fingers gave a momentary beckon, impatient for him to reach

"Countess, I do owe you an apology."

Better act before another storm.

The curl of her lips wavered, deepening her grimace into perplexity, as her brows rose. In the cavity of her silence, he assumed she awaited an explanation.

"The _Momento_ , for your mother, took too many tries, more attempts than it should. Apologies, it wasn't perfect. I have not meant to insult you or your mother."

A sigh and a roll of the eyes, and her mid-air hand slowly floated to her forehead. "Oh, this little affair. I suppose the apology wasn't enough." Now her forefinger massaged her forehead, and she seemed distraught that she hadn't crossed something off her task list after all. "You did not insult at all. That was no reflection on your abilities."

"You said what I produced was an insult. I believed you were holding me responsible."

"The work was an insult, but not _your_ work. You simply put in all your effort."

He tried not to grind his teeth. He better just let her keep talking.

"I was dissatisfied. You worked with what was given and there was nothing more I could give."

"It could’ve been better.”

“True, _I_ could’ve handled it better.” She rolled her eyes. "I also apologize on behalf of my mother. I was speaking for her. Not sure I got her choosiness down." Due to the defaulted hardness, he could not parse whether she intended this humorously or gravely.

And she rose her hand again for that handshake.

"Perhaps I should’ve just explained, shaking the hand of a new Clan leader is good luck, a blessing. It's for your benefit."

So he stretched his fingers to shake off any ice, then accepted her hand, that firm grip, this embittered blessing.

She released his hand into the cold.

Satisfied with this exchange, she restored her helmet over her stoicism and her voice rung out in a filtered reverb, "Enjoy your stay here with the Wrens. Our family is just a series of masterpieces just waiting to take shape." And she passed his colorless canvas, as if she had just finished something off the checklist, ready to proceed to her next priority.

Her first gunfire permeated the air with a fiery pop and a branch cracked and fell with a teeth-crunching and powdered _blam_. So she was the source of his sleep disturbances on his first days. 

Although he could paint the landscape as if she didn't exist, he judged her to be an obstruction to his zen and turned his canvas away, removing the occupied site of her private target practice from his creative lens, and redirected himself to another natural angle of the landscape where the nothing alleviated his eyes.

He busied himself, maneuvering his wrist to make shapes.

A blast.

_White. Half-formed hills in a few curve, get the curves perfect-._

Another blast. A branch collapsed in the distance.

_Snow-powdered valleys, the outlines squiggle-_

A succession of blaster fire and multiple branches crumbling...

And then he choose to fall back into bed, where he could defrost, the water of dying ice bleeding into his blanket.

The impression resulted in an uncertain smudge of white and gray, and not even the green life of Krownest trees had grown into existence, for his hands had not mastered the mobility in Krownest air, and the Countess's gunfire disturbed his eardrums, so the discontented canvas laid on the paint-stained floor.

 


	6. Gallery of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gallery of family and history, which never belonged to him.

**_Countess Ursa Wren,_** _like all profiles, begun with a blank canvas, once the visor was lifted from her eyes. The living Chieftess was frozen with a discipline for austerity. Poise on the throne in her gold armor, she has the predictable aesthetic of a leader's grimace. It could’ve taken just one glance at her face and then he could fixate himself on only the canvas from then on._  Made for an atypical portrait, which satisfied her enough to not invoke anything more, no critique, no comments. She rewarded him with a terse nod at the finished product.

_**Countess Sasha Wren** , the younger Wren, second-in-command. _

_**Countess Sasha Wren**   **and** **Countess Anna Wren.** Former with helmet on lap, the latter with no helmet at her lap._

**_Sir Castro Wren_** _, a harsh profile with a grin of amiability._

"So tell me, did politics or gunfire gave you that scar? I'm betting it's the former."

“You’re correct.”

“I knew it.”

As the months passed, from old to young Wrens, he found himself comfortably cracking a few jokes (“Should I embellish this attractive scar, it brings out your Mandalorian fire?”) and expected banter in return ("What do you mean this scar isn't enough as it is?") and be permitted to meet their eyes, unshielded by their visors. 

**_Airi Wren._ **

**_Castro and Lana Wren’s Third_** _. Castro and Lana Wren holding their newest bundle._

 **_Pria Wren_** _._

 ** _Dev Wren_** _. Eight years old, a distant nephew of Chieftess. Passed his initiation with flying colors. He demanded invincibility. So he found himself at liberty to apply cubism, said it made him look sharp and pointy, so untouchable by enemies._ Dev Wren loved it.

For Dev Wren’s initiation too, he created a handful of marble-sized spheres, that exploded with paints, a sack for Dev Wren, and sack for the Wren children. Just proper to liven the kids up, consider it pro bono. The young Wrens tossed those marble-sized spheres at the adults. Dev Wren happened to mis-aim and tossed it at Countess Sasha’s helmet. When Pria Wren's jetpack during a training session shot out the marbles of paint, that was the final straw. That got him taken aside by Countess Sasha Wren and lectured on passing the Wren children prank-items—without consulting them.

**_Mina Wren._ **

Chieftess Wren did not exaggerate. The Wren family was a series of masterpieces waiting to happen.

* * *

 There was a proverb he caught in the Archives, embedded in the audio recording attached to Chieftess San Wren’s _Momento Mori_ : “We’re bones, then ashes, but fire is forever.”

The brushstrokes of a Clan’s fire never belonged to the artist. What went on the canvas was their property, their history, in which he flared with color. A holo told the events. An artist captured the spirit.

A Mandalorian on a portrait had an extra shot of immortality. Art was insurance. Their impressions, dignified for the curiosity and hunger of future archeologists, Wren would live on in image, even if names were lost.

Whenever the Wrens made their homecoming, sometimes with smoky armor, with Countess Ursa irritably slapping her helmet as if to shake out the dust from inside, it increased his gratitude that he had not fallen into this warrior vocation attempting its cultural comeback in Mandalore.

But the real artistic fun started when they returned from war... no, technically melees that were usually under half-an-hour. A majority of Wrens of the Countesses' generation, as far as he knew, had yet to experience a full-fledged war—only a handful of elder Wrens were veterans of the Mandalorian Civil War. But Clan Wren had several run-ins with skirmishes with their Outer Rim trading business.

There was no war out there. There was gunfire with trade and pirates and bounty hunters, inevitably, but the Wrens would settle for these, embellish these "wars." He replicated the legends spilling out of their lips.

Clan Wren lived out their unsurprising acquired taste for the violent, which wasn’t beyond his imitation.

_Countess Sasha mid-air in the night blue of Mandalorian skies. **Countess Sasha Outwits Pirates.**_

**_Countess Ursa and Sasha Perched_ ** _on a moving ship, their pistols aimed at assailants. Requested by Countess Sasha._

Sometimes other Clans, collaborators in their business, popped up in the painted narrative.

_The figure of Governor Pre Vizsla, poise on an ashen hill. In yellow, some Wrens could be identified by their colors, staring up to Vizsla. Requested to express allegiance to Vizsla. **Vizla's Fire.**_

_The gold-clad Ursa Wren, helmeted, arms ready with a pistol, positioned between a crimson Saxon and a gray Vizlsa. With her center-point, she appeared to be in command of the situation, which involved the blast of red sailing over their helmets. A point-of-view requested by a Wren relative who was present. **Barricade of Clans.**_

_Chieftess Ursa Wren and Quen Vizsla in the midst of a battle. Tricky piece, even if proposal pieces were among his favorite. According to eyewitness, or second-hand tellers of Wrens not there but still retold the story anyway, they kneeled together. Of course, no holos of the event to work from. He grayed up Vizsla's armor, since there was conflicting testimony on whether his gear was black of blood or silver, and added in a white wolf, a familiar trademark of his armor. He produced a series, like stills of a cinematic scene. The Countess kneel first. Then the figure of Quen Vizsla slowly kneeled to accept her, so their eyes could meet on equal terms. The feedback from the Chieftess, sent through Sasha’s message, was to "redden the scene." Was she asking for war fire, blood, or a romantic tint?  He dabbled tinges of crimson around them, an interpretation that satisfied them and resulted in his most favorite commission for Clan Wren yet: **The Proposal of Ursa Wren.**_

_Shades of yellow, red, gray, and other hues, circling around Pre Vizsla. **Clans and a House United**._

* * *

  _This man with the penciled outline, the man in the mirror, on the blank white, the smudge of shadows imprinting on the snow of the canvas._

_He chose to give this fellow a smile, despite it being otherwise in the actual mirror reflection. Because the smile, even if it didn’t happen, was truth. Giving the Wrens their color had offered him the privilege of contentment cleared of life worries, something he longed to find in his post-college months in Sundari. The finances, enough to resolve his tuition debt and account for a year’s worth of rent, had granted him insurance and security, less anxiety to focus on the brushstrokes, mental space to buck up for a critique from the Chieftess, to nod when a Wren appreciated his work._

_And this fellow also decided that his outline and shadows had fused, bonded, in the blank of the canvas, the muteness of Krownest hue, so he had to notify Clan Wren that he had been truly honored to deliver to the Wrens, while he must find his own color elsewhere._

**_Self-portrait_** _, a sketch to be fully formed._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and dialogue about Mandalorian culture appreciated.


	7. First Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, he woke up deciding Krownest was beautiful.

He had planned to notify Countess Sasha Wren of his impending departure today, but the sudden spark of the landscape distracted him from this priority. Somehow, the sight out the window warmed all his initial disfavor with Krownest. Knowing that this fuel wouldn't last, he whipped on his smock and found himself planted in the midst of the snow, only stopping to take a few bites of a napkin-wrapped bread for sustenance. He found that his hands weren't as shaky as his paintbrush moved. He had adapted to the cold.

_White. Muted colors. Some green of the trees peeping from the shroud of white._

Countess Ursa, helmeted, strolled by for her target practice, now she was a gold figure blended into the comfort of the scenery. She blasted at the dead branches, sending them to their fall and it did not ruin his impressionist zen.

The scenery in front of him satisfied him enough, but he saw opportunity to vary his scenery. He re-angled the easel and now she was in his line of sight.

The Countess's blast rang. He saw the shape from the distance. Good enough sight. He got what he needed.

_Blaster beams are standard red stripes._

The blaster noises continued. Branches fell. Footprints crunching. The Countess is moving to look for another target, another branch.

_Red will stand out against the plainness._

Double blaster noises. Two branches fell.

The snow is crunching.

_A fire then, not a strip of red, but a blazing comet with shades of red._

He'll add in the gold later for the core of the blaster-comet.

_A tiny stroke of gold, to represent the Countess._

Right now, he wanted to shape of the shooter before his memory faded out. He was dipping his brush in a tub of black when he looked up and found that the Countess was no longer in front of him.

The Countess stood behind him, looking over his shoulder, shadow on him.

“Is this for us?“ Us meant the Wrens.

It was so natural today that he had the courage to answer her immediately. “No, it’s my own. It’s my break day, m’am. Off-clock.“

He sucked his cheeks to pass the time as she pondered over it, longer than she did over her mother's _Mori Momento_. 

“When you're finished, I would like to have it. I'll compensate you for your time.“ 

“This painting is for my personal leisure. It's not for your Archives.“ A certain pleasure of ownership bubbled over him. It would be great to work on his own gallery rather than some other Clan's gallery.

"Oh. Then why am I in it?"

Honestly, just felt like it. "You were part of the scenery. Couldn't overlook you."

Other than her appearance in this impression, this was his plainest work. Impressions, although a necessary skill, have been mocked in critics' circles, for simply copy-pasting, though they were deemed necessary for one "had to draw realistically before dissolving into surreal," as a professor said. He knew this impression was only a beginning of something.

"What you do you see in it, m'am?"

"It's my home. I thought I'll give the next Count a fragment of our home to welcome him." The next Count, she was referring to Quen Vizsla, the deuteragonist of one of his favorite Wren piece for its sheer romanticism, _The Proposal of Ursa Wren_. Oh, she wanted something to give to her new husband. A disappointment washed over him: He didn't want to leave Krownest before doing the Countess and Count's wedding portrait, for depictions of marital bliss was among his favorite requests to fulfill, to feel like the expert on the color of romance.

“What do _you_ even see in it?“ She inquired.

He reflexively wondered if that was a dig at his ability, though why would she desire it in the first place to the point of offering extra payment? Or did she assume that only paintings with Wrens in it were the only worthy pieces?

“It's nice to have my own picture.“ He didn't want to explain that, while he did enjoy executing requests from the Wrens, he wanted to get, as all ambitious artists pledged, more original. He wanted to start with something safe and tasteful as a landscape.

“Nothing else?“ She sounded disappointed. He should get more intellectual.

She was asking for an artist’s interpretation. “It’s simple, isolation veiled in muted surrounding. I just wanted an impression of the scenery, and since you were present, why not work you in?"

"That is not quite what a blaster beam looks like." She was definitely being a critic again, but with a tint of curiosity, that sort of inquisitiveness he liked to answer to whenever someone wanted his professional explanation for his artistic choices.

"The comet was improvised. The fire of your blaster stands out against the muteness, the dullness of the whiteness.”

"Dullness?"

Deep breath. "Yes."

“You find Krownest, my ancestral home, _dull_?“

He did flinch at the way she enunciated _dull_ in that identical tough vocal inflection she gave him, the last time they chatted in the snow a year ago. Yet, he recomposed his clarity. That time a year ago, before he worked on her annual portrait, he found her inflection to be deliberately stiff-lipped intimidation, one that insinuated the veil of prison-time if he didn't say the right things.

The way her expression remained frozen in its stoicism alerted him of the long lull.

He considered himself grateful that he hadn't been placed in too much situations that required eye contact with her. But seeing her eyes now in Krownest's natural light, he understood, perhaps that all this time, this battle-lorn Clan Chieftess was just like a fellow college acquaintance ribbing him, perhaps too cautious of not back-patting herself over her humor, and a little arduous on her social approach.

Maybe he was in an audacious mood today, maybe he wanted to make the best out of his last days. He stood up, beyond her shadow. “I confess that the dullness is why I work here." 

"How can that dullness interest you? Was it not an honor to be a part of Clan Wren's landscape?"

The growing edge of her smirk gave him a free pass for a quip, a subversive compliment. He gave a glance at the landscape, one of his final contemplative glances of this landscape he learned to see as home, but a temporary domain, before remarking, "I thought it was a great honor, to bring life to this dullness.“

When he turned his head back to her, he saw that she had wrinkled her nose in disdain. Yet, her smirk did not fade, seemingly an indication she absorbed his dry humor, so no dire cause for an apology.

And he picked up his impression and walked away without glancing back at her, though the absence of her footprint crunching indicated that she had paused to observe his departure, his fade-out from the scene, and then the blaster gunfire resumed popping behind him.

He normally would avert reporting to the Chieftess, preferring to answer to Countess Sasha, the easy-going one, but he could have seized that opportunity right there, to at least inform her of his leave, to rescue himself from procrastination, get it all over with. But at least today, he discovered a shooting star in this cold bleakness.

_Although cloaked in muted white, there are particular stand-out flashes of color, of a Chieftess shooting a comet against the dullness. She and the comet appears to be the most fully-formed entities in the piece, while the scenic background seemed half-formed, but with an underrated beauty that radiates its crispiness. No one could anticipate missing this scenery._

_Working title: **First Impression on Krownest.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was honored with loyal reader [Countessofkrownest](https://countessofkrownest.tumblr.com/) doing [a short depiction of this chapter](https://countessofkrownest.tumblr.com/post/165451191718/small-part-of-a-scene-from-amaximinalists). This person had actually made Tumblr posts that sparked the process of this fanfiction as I was making tongue-in-cheek posts about the yet-to-be-seen-together Wren couple.


	8. Post-Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Impression, he grows more perceptive to see the hue of an epiphany.

**_Momento Mori for Mina Wren_**. _She went out in a blaze, during a skirmish with pirates, dissolving into a squared ashen-tiles into the backdrop._

 **_Banque_ _t_** _**.** The warriors of the Wrens sat down locked in revelry songs. Embedded is the audio of their Mand'o anthem._

_"[The Mandalorian flame waving like a flag_

_even our ashes remained fueled...]"_

* * *

_"[...So when the smoke clears,_

_They will see us, united, the Clan of the ancient_

_our bones are made of stardust...]"_

It was a tune seeded itself in his memory, a sound of sowed fury as familiar as the distant blasts of her comets during her leisure target practice, the sound that beat on his eardrums when he was physically present for assemblies or the echo down the hallways that initially disturbed him but soon dissolved into a muffled lullaby that put him to sleep, and though he knew the lyrics, the poetry of the ancient and the present, he always settled for humming along.

When the anthem faded out,

_"[and stardust we will return to_

_but our ashes remain bright_ _...]"_

Chieftess Ursa Wren's rhetoric begun its sparks, “...For the greatness of the Clan. We will unite and grow stronger and undo the spineless ideals that perverted our strength and treated us as outlanders from our own land...“

Standing from her throne, Chieftess Ursa Wren had not spruced up her armor from the last battle, donning it for this ceremony, dents and all, fresh from gunfire, a calculated display of professional active intensity.

He knew the contents of Wren’s speeches by heart: The reclamation of a strong Mandalore, be united under House Vizsla, the softness of the government system, the perversion of the "new and backwards" system, and the passion suppressed by the current Duchess. He had trained himself to be more attentive to the words of Clan Wren. Though he had been just waiting for the rhetoric to end.

When all the Wrens and present allies dispersed into casual sociability, he approached the Countess, who by some miracle, wasn't occupied with anyone else so he could be the first to approach her.

But once she looked down in his direction, she cleared her throat audibly in the noise of the mesh of conversations and pointed at his feet, which weren't supposed to touch the platform unless summoned. Only the high-ranked Clans warriors were permitted to set foot on her throne platform without being beckoned. But she didn't seem disappointed in his misstep and seemed to have a tinge of amusement playing at the corner of her lips.

She didn't beckon him but opted to descend to him down the steps.

“Compliments to the Countess.“ He handed her a small portrait.

“You’ve given me what I wanted.“ 

“No, I’ve found the leisure to reproduce it.“

“Interesting  _rendition_.” She held it to the light, transfixed.

“You’ve noticed the changes.“ The original copy hung in his room.

_Krownest. The snow and wind rolled out in hypnotic spirals, the Countess remained in the picture, a distinguishable golden shape, a comet leaving her blaster. **Krownest, Post-Impression.**_

“I do not recall the snow being so spiraled up.“

"What you saw in the snow was an impression. This is a  _post-impression_ , different from an impression, more in the abstract realm, but it can't exist without the impression, which is its concrete template."

"The comet is unchanged."

“I wanted the brightest to stick out. Hope you like it.“

“What if I didn’t?“ She allowed a playful modulation of Clan Wren traditional intimidation, insinuating that consequences could follow. But the corners of her mouth were curled with a teasing, sportive tinge.

“I’ll change it to your liking.“ He reached for gift but she drew it away, eyes on the shooting star.

“That was intended as a joke." 

"I figured you requested it when you saw the first impression. So I acted accordingly."

"I never _officially_ requested it.” She peered up from being hypnotized by the swirls. “How much do you-"

"It's pro bono. I had time on my hands."

"You used your leisure time for me?"

“For the both of you. You and this Vizsla. You’ve mentioned that you wanted a welcoming gift for him. So this is your wedding gift. And for your Count, too.”

“Oh.”

"Yes. I'm just a sucker for marriage.” He almost collided into a social circle of Wrens and Saxons, and muttered a "pardon me" to Countess Anna Wren, when he headed to the feast table, disremembering that the room wasn’t empty.

* * *

Three days later, he and the Countess were truly alone, for it was her annual portrait time, among those final obligations he wanted to finish before leaving.

They were on equal level. She was not on her throne, the higher ground, but a simple chair below.

He bothered to crack one of his jokes, which he could do with easy-going clients like Sir Castro and even Countess Sasha Wren, now that he was on more relaxed terms with her. "Should I add in a scar to accentuate your warrior-ness?"

She gave him a no-nonsense grumble. Out in the snow in those leisure hours, she was an acquaintance. But this was professional hour. She was the client, a customer that preferred her service without humor.

He shrugged and resumed.

Then his paintbrush neared the edge of the rose-hue.

He paused.-

He peered around the canvas for a double-take, the toes skimming the floor, tempted to make the unprofessional move of leaving his seat just so he could ascertain if those new qualities had been there.

She was unchanged from her first post-coronation portrait. He must be mistaken that something had changed, to warrant this additional coloring.

But he betrayed too many glances, and the consistent glow before his eyes did not yield any illusion. She did evolve from her last portrait. Truth is truth. He found himself reddening–-“rosening” he would coin it–-the cheeks, which granted her willful austerity with a blush of a softened palette. 

And then, he beckoned her silently to see the final product.

She skimmed through it, her default stoicism unaltered when her eyes landed on it.

Then to his astonishment, her gloved hands reached out to touch the painted cheeks.

He was ready to promise a revision, because now her eyes flickered with want, so he assumed that he had missed something. But she asked for nothing more, her hand lingering on the redness of the portrait’s cheek.

Then her head turned to him, and the questions in her eyes nearly drove him to melt, so he forced himself out of his seat and gave her a brief bow then willed his footsteps away.

His only error that day was choosing to look back, to see that she was observing his exit

Her hand was no longer on the wet paint of her portrait’s cheeks, but now it hung at her side.

Then her hand rose, and he thought that she would beckon him back to her side, maybe to pass a critique or compliment or request a revision—he would rejoin her in a heartbeat if she did, provide her whatever she decided she needed.

But her hand did not re-summon him. Instead, it leveled to her own still-austere solid countenance, her own cheeks, which was still glowing with the shade of her revelation, which was now installed in her latest portrait.

* * *

He had the juvenile urge, to escape his room, to knock on her bedroom door, ask if he could scrutinize her latest portrait, just to see the receipt, the proof of the moment. Even in his memory, it wasn't enough, he had to make sure that he had not deceived himself when he reached for the rose colors. 

Though he knew he wouldn’t have had that kind of artistic license with the official portrait, a Wren-mandated commission, there was something about her eyes that he missed.

For the first time, he endeavored to paint the eyes of a Wren of his own volition. He fixated on the brown eyes first. Engulfed by the Krownest snow-white sea blankess, the visor-less eyes, not with that default judgmental stare she gave to those engaged in a conversation or debriefing with her, but one filled with the inquisitiveness when she stared into the abstract mirror of her latest portrait.

By the time he was reaching toward the blues, he stopped himself, then chewed on the end of his paintbrush. He was supposed to notify the Countess of his departure, but he had anchored himself to this planet he once dismissed as forsaken.

He tore himself away from her eyes to opt for eye contact with the **_Self-Portrait_**  hanging next to the mirror. Then he stared at the reflection, the real deal, and this man’s face glowed with the matching rosy tone of Ursa Wren's face. 

His face remained baked-hot even as he drove himself, smock and all, into a blast of a freezing shower to awaken him to reality: _You're bored, starving for an excuse to not leave, to save you the trouble of packing up, fabricating the details to get swept up in a petty fantasy, this spontaneous phase._  The murk of the paints on his smock melted into a dark stream down the drain. His gloves slapped to the wet tiles as he ran his hands in the stream of cold, the red of the paint slipping down the drain in a whirlpool, but he resumed scrubbing vigorously, so his hands and his face could be liberated and cleansed from any red that he missed.


	9. Their Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Illuminator gifts the Countess with a vision, and he himself receives one.

“You’re not permitted through these doors.“ The shine of the bodyguard’s visor glared.

“Apologies, I have something for the Countess.“

“Is it urgent?“

“No.“ He could joke that matters of delivering art was an emergency, but he decided against it. “But she and the Wrens are fresh from a battle, so I wanted to give her some morale.“ Last night, there were no Wren casualties, much to his gratitude. Sometimes, he found himself more wary of painting less Wrens, particularly after Mina Wren's _Momento Mori_.

“You’ll have to be summoned by her. Or just wait for her to eme-.“

The hiss of the doors swiped open. The Countess had her helmet, silver-dented and with the smell of charred metal due to a rent combative affair related to work with House Vizsla, resting under her arm. Although she retained her usual stiff-upper lips, her brows rose with astonishment.

“Let him in.“

The first thing he discovered in her chamber was that she hung the leisurely _Post-Impression,_ right next to her current portrait of her blush.

She cleared her throat and he diverted his attention from the display of the past. He handed her the portrait of her eyes.

“I had time to do this one.“

She took a seat to process his work, and in her eyes she saw the...

_world of Mandalore, with its sharp geometric shapes, with the pure white backdrop of Krownest, in them. **Vision.**_

“I hope it exceeds the previous one I gave you.”

“It’s exceptional. Though I wonder if you simply forgot the rest of my profile.”

He lowered down to take a seat beside her, for he recalled a passage in a manners guidebook the Wren Archives: _It is out of decorum to assume a poise that has you looking down on a Countess._

“No, the eyes suited me the best. Or I got too lazy to draw the rest.”

“I see, you really noticed my fire in them.” 

He swallowed. “You’ll be the first Wren to know. It’s a farewell gift.“

Her stoicism did not break, but he could hear the slush of her sucking her cheeks.

“I’m moving back to Mandalore’s capitol. Maybe go elsewhere from there.“

Now her fingers drummed on the thread of the canvas. “Why are you leaving?”

“You can trust me not to divulge anything of confidentiality. I haven't forgotten Countess Sasha's order of non-disclosure."

“I do, but why are you leaving your station?“

He nearly chucked at the usage of the word, _station,_ but he grasp the weight of it, the importance of the Illuminator-Historian title to swallow his laugh.

“It’s my choice. It’s time for a new scenery.” 

“You’re part of our Clan.“

That stung beneath his eyes. In a shaky whisper, he replied, “I _am no Wren_.“

“You are. I’ll make Krownest scenery less duller for you.”

There was an opportunity to lighten, forget the stinging beneath his eyes. “But then where will I improve it? I needed dullness to improve upon. That was how I was an artist here.“ He smirked. “You make that place too good, then I won’t have anything to work with.“

“Exactly, you bring the color of Krownest. You fly away, and that color will be gone.“

Persuasive, flattering if she dispensed her rhetoric for a servant-level like him. He could stay to be close to those eyes. Stay to paint the new bride and her new Count. He could see himself painting the heirs-

“I’ll sleep on it, m’am.“

Her lips tightened. “I’m not, m’am.“

In finality, he patted the surface of the mattress- he hadn't realized he had sat down on the edge of her bed, in a room with no chair in proximity. And he rose, cautiously, with limited tenseness, the soft creak of bed springs groaning in his ears, to limit any chance that she would notice his unintentional breach of decorum.

“I’ll sleep on it... Countess.“ He knew what she wanted him to utter. She had crossed a line and she was asking him to cross it with her.

* * *

He dreamed that she had returned unscathed in her polished armor and summoned him to the throne room and he let her draw him to her chest-plate where her heartbeats sounded like drums. Then when she allowed him to part, he found his nightclothes stained with fresh streaks. And then his first instinct was to run out and slatter snow over the red, but the white could not neutralize, wash away, the blood that belonged to neither him nor her.

_Whenever she'll fly off to some distant mission, I'll take my flight, so I won't see her come home in dented armor. And I'll have time to do a much better goodbye._

He had a blank canvas up. He wanted to draw her eyes again. But he was on a blockage now. 

When an artist is in a rut, an artist just has to take a walk.

He knew stories, now possible prophecies. There had been romances as old as time in the holos. A Mandalorian of a lower station and a Mandalorian of an upper rank–the more audacious tales featured a Mandalorian falling for an outlander, star-crossed lovers, popular material in Mandalorian fiction of tragedies, even if outlander marriages were heavily frowned upon despite its legalization in Mandalore. But there were few that had their happy endings of unions and matrimony vows.

Tragedies ended in consequential elopements, cautionary tales that warned of the danger of class imbalances in an archaic fashion, resulting in the death of Clans, the destruction of a lover or both, that led way to literary retellings where couples were considered the tragic figures surrounded by circumstances rather than the instigator of tragedy. Either way, modern or archaic stories, tragedies.

But the stories never told of the upper-rank Mandalorian, returning home with the red hue–identical to a rose hue but not rosy at all–dented armor. 

 _ **Footprints on Krownest.**  A lone man, almost blended in the snow, walks across snow with a tail of about ten sets of his footprints, but the rest of his footprints vanished, ephemeral, showing the temporal quality of a mortal presence in the perpetuity of the cold, and a horizon of a Clan's stronghold is visible with a square of gray_ _. Over it is the sole light of the piece, the comet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if any of you discerned a subtle homage to E.K. Johnson's _Ahsoka_ and where in the passage did you notice it? Anyone who answers it correctly will win a 2-3 paragraph on one of their fanfiction.


	10. Last Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tried to give the departing Ursa Wren the most dignified curtain call he could give before he would take his own flight.

Chieftess Wren received a late notification that she had been summoned by Governor Pre Vizsla regarding an Outer Rim trade matter, though talks varied on whether the trade would occur on Concordia or elsewhere, a mission expected to last nearly a month.

This resulted in great bemoaning among the relatives on the assumed postponement of the engagement party.

But then the holo announcement arrived: The party would not be postponed, but held early, just an hour before she and they fly off to Outer Rim business, to a collaboration with Clan Vizsla.

"Finally, at last," he overheard Wrens muttering as he emerged to grab a food from the pantry. "She had been taking her time with this one. Glad she's doing this, ASAP."

"Productive. She has a mission with Clan Vizsla. And she has a party with Clan Vizsla. A party then a mission. It's pretty symbolic, celebrate the betrothal then fly off with the Clan Vizsla business matters. She knows how to show her union with Clan Vizsla."

Familial receptions were a stage of entertainment. He suspected that there would be little harm if he participated in socializing with nobility circles at parties, but he never tried. Instead, he slipped among the crowd to tune into an interesting conversation, and listen without making eye contact with the gossipers and speakers.

He found the engagement party to be an intimate affair than the more crowded coronation. He knew because he felt like he could breathe here. With few from Clan Saxon and Kast invited though, gatherings like this predominantly paid tribute to family ties while serving as potent grounds for battle morale, to fight, “fight for the children, the bloodlines to extend, fight to protect them, fight for our chance to raise them into a glorious, restored Mandalore.”

After the speech, Countess Ursa Wren took her seat. Quen Vizsla remained standing, facing the audience. He was permitted to stand in front of the vacant spot on the throne, to reflect his future seating upon completed matrimony. At the warrior's lips, he had a smirk that denoted the facial status symbol of a Vizsla. And this warrior truly was invested in his betrothal because, between handshakes of the Clan members lined up to congratulate her, the Vizsla was passing her an inferred quip (inaudible from his distance) that clearly amused her into warm grins and chuckles. He thought for a moment that Quen Vizsla would remain there for the rest of the party, but then Quen Vizsla reached for his Countess's hand, as if to ask permission for something and his head dipped into a brief bow. Then Quen Vizsla descended, as if breezily abdicating, to join the crowd below toward the congratulations by Vizslas, passing by the artist.

The profile of Quen Vizsla, he could see, had creases, although he was reported to be a man in his late 20s.

When he turned from his attention to Quen Vizsla, he gave a glance back at the throne, where a red-haired warrior with Vizsla-colored armor approached the Countess.

“Governor Pre Vizsla sends his regards. May Mandalore bless you and the heirs to come.”

He turned his head away, but kept his ears upon.

“Thank you, Bo-Katan.“

“Perhaps, you could adopt the Vizsla surname, Countess, it's a recommendation.”

“Governor Vizsla asked you to recommend it, didn't he? Don’t suggest that the Wren Clan is so inferior that they must displace the name of their nobility. You created grounds for a duel, Bo-Katan.“ 

He could imagine Bo-Katan returning the Countess’s cordial smirk. “What will all the heirs be then?”

“The Count Vizsla and I have agreed that if heirs are to be produced, the firstborn will bear the Wren name. Additional heirs will be Vizslas.“

“Pre Vizsla is a sticker for having his family name continued.“

“Governor Vizsla is a warrior committed to the direction of Mandalore, the man to follow. But that does not absolve him from his churlishness. We may be related soon by marriage, but Pre Vizslas could swallow his input about his second-cousin’s marital choices to himself. That’s where he has no authority in that matter.“

“Countess Wren, that mouth of yours is grounds for a duel. But I have to credit you and all the Wrens. You’re loyal, but you’re no sheep. Not like some of the lesser Saxons and Matos. You’re a loyal wolf that howls with its pack but takes its time to howl alone, at its own risk, before returning to its pack…“

He assumed that Ursa would be so engaged that she wouldn’t notice him. So he dared to shift his head for a glance at the Countess.

Then her eyes seemed to flash at him at the automatic instance of her head turn, as if she had foreseen his glance, and his eavesdropping.

That was his signal to walk away, out into the haze, the snow-powdered balcony.

When the doors opened and the footsteps headed toward him, he knew it was her, but then he was relieved of all tension when she was whisked away, by a well-wisher back into the warmth of her home, leaving him in the cold.

And then before he knew it, the sounds of the revelry faded behind him. And he knew that Wren household were going to disperse to go to bed. 

He heard the clanking of armors passing by him, as if he was irrelevant or too blended in Krownest dark to be visible. If they asked, he would say, he was getting some air. 

Once they activated the carrier, there was enough light to illuminate the shade of colors, the darkened and yellowed armors in motion, their individuality anonymous by their helmets. The armored Mandalorians pushed crates of ammunition into the carrier. But among the hustle-and-bustle, one helmeted warrior was stationary. This warrior donned a bulked-up battle armor of gold. He couldn't process when she had passed him, when she was suddenly down in the snow, at the loading zone.

The unmoving gold one's helmet lingered at his direction, the gleam of the visor gazing, not tearing away, as warrior Wrens and Vizslas pushed cargo into the carrier.

He gulped. _She had the right to know that I'll depart before she'll come home. Too late._

He would crack a smile, but that would probably be too far for her to process. He would wave, but that would render him noticeable, susceptible to the eyes of Wrens and Vizslas. He would drown in the snow to reach her, but her betrothed was in proximity.

_Maybe Countess Sasha had already notified her._

So his hands squeezed the balcony. Then he bent down, with the meticulousness and shyness of a new actor wary of his choreography on a premiere night, knowing that the dark and shape of his hair would _likely_ be visible, and if she couldn't process his final bow, he let his hands gradually trail and extend a length of the balcony as he dipped down, a movement that allowed restrained discernibility while preserving inconspicuousness.

 _One. Two. Three..._   _Does she see it? How long should I pause?_

_Six. Seven. Eight. Nine..._

Then he rose, his hands trailing back, reverting.

The warrior had neither moved nor approached his direction.

And then her gold disappeared in the dark, following the shape of Quen Vizsla and Bo-Katan into the carrier, which shrunk into a dot into the upper atmosphere as quick as footprints faded in the snow. 

The Illuminator did not fade from the curtain call into the dark household just yet.

He was left staring at the clouds, for a week, leaving unfulfilled canvases, before his scheduled flight out of Clan Wren.

But before he could escape the light of Krownest, he felt that the quicksand of the snow had already swallowed him.

For he received word that Ursa Wren would never return home from her mission.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed.


	11. We're All Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mourning era begins, despite a rather mute veil hanging over the assembly in the throne room.

Next the empty throne was Sasha Wren, Chieftess-apparent, her eyes visibly going to-and-fro from the chair's vacancy and to the Wrens below her. Her eyes never meet the Illuminator.

The distant niece Pria Wren, seventeen years old, stood at Countess Sasha's side, her knees shaking. Much like her younger brother, Dev, she was one who requested a cubist portrait of herself, "for invincibility." But now she looked like a tumble of machinery parts that could crumble down, and one could surmise that she never expected for circumstances to whisk her closer to the cliff of leadership.

There was a eulogy, muttered by Chieftess-apparent Sasha, “… My sister, our leader, was adamant about unifying Clans, extending our familial powers…” a preliminary to the period of mourning.

Three days after that speech, Clan Vizsla delivered an urn-full of ashes that was set upon the throne, thus, the mourning era for Ursa Wren had commerced.

But Countess Sasha Wren, up there, looking as stern and bewildered as her sister when she stood next to Chieftess San Wren’s urn, stared wordlessly at the audience of Wrens below her, no words, no supposed additional eulogy dropping from her lips.

He had to know... get all the testimonies from the present family... so he could get this right.

"Their camp setup had been bombed by the rivaling House. Security faltered."

"Countess Sasha has been pleading with Pre Vizsla for a re-search, for anything." 

Sir Castro Wren, wiping at the scratches at his forehead, was the least vague: “Those ashes up there aren’t even her bones. They’re from the site, it’s debris of dirt and metal. Two Vizslas and one of ours, our Ka Wren, were found and delivered to us. But we're waiting for Countess Ursa's remains. But Countess Sasha is in absolute denial over Pre Vizsla’s report. I was there, yards from the impact of the bombs. I think I might be in denial too. But we all know how thorough Pre Vizsla is.”

The next day, another assembly of silence, no proceeding eulogy from Countess Sasha.

“Nothing of her or the would-be Count’s bones. No amount of digging yielded hers or Quen Vizsla’s bones or the others.”

“Countess Sasha is stalling this. She has a speech prepared, yet mutters nothing.”

_If I had left sooner, I'd hear from the holos. It's all the same._

Suddenly, starring too long at Countess Sasha’s glassy untouched-by-time gaze, the world dissolved into a whirl. He remembered approaching Countess Sasha, trying not to look at the urn. He didn't remember if he waited for the Chieftess-apparent to beckon him up to speak. But he vaguely remembered standing on the platform, meeting Countess Sasha's reproaching eyes to promise a Momento Mori, for everyone who fell, the would-be Count and the Chieftess and then Countess Sasha, indignant at his likely audacity of step over customs, muttering, "That wouldn't be necessary..." and then he remembered replying that he must be forgiven, for he was ill, but he wanted to do it more than he wanted rest, and then Countess Sasha, her clear irritation  now frowning into concern, ordering, "No, lie down and wait, don't work yourself sick. We won't disturb you." And then he remembered the warmth of a hand of a Wren on his back, what sounded like the music of Countess Anna Wren murmuring "calm, calm, calm, young man," escorting him to some familiar realm with the scent of his dried paints, her lulling voice, "a good Wren mutes their grief, like my wife, just sleep," before her footprints faded out, and his face smothered onto the moist softness of his pillow.

How did that anthem go again?

_"[...We're all bones, and then stardust,_

_but ashes will glow]."_

He replayed the soft thunder of her shooting stars and Ursa re-ignited into existence.

Now he had the birth of a vision.  _Begin with the ashes from the lid of the urn, where a comet will surface with her shape resting in the egg of the shooting star’s core._

 


	12. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He expected the body bag, but she did not return home covered up.

“The Countess has returned home.“ He heard from behind the doors of his cabin, forcing him to lug himself from his stupor.

_They found her. They’ll cremate her here as she wished._

He willed himself, his socked feet crushing loose empty paint tubes and paint brushes, sweeping aside a tray of hardened grits, to join the flock of Wrens outside, his drowsy eyes peeled for the burial bag as Chieftess-to-be Sasha dashed to the front.

But from the darkness of the carrier, three Wrens on automatic stretchers. Coughing through their oxygen masks. One of them managed a feeble wave at the standing Wrens.

And then: her. She was not sealed up, the lower-half of her face enclosed in an oxygen mask, as the stretcher hovered out.

There was the flicker of her eyelids squinting in the light and her lips teasing an attempt at words from beneath the blurred transparency of the mask.

And it was only the cold of Krownest and the pressure on his arm, as a Wren, Countess Anna ("Don't disturb her"), restrained him, to alert him that he was not dreaming.

* * *

Everyone, except Countess Sasha, expressed ill-feelings, reveling in their resurrected Chieftess and Wrens. 

"Countess Sasha, she's reportedly furious with Pre Vizsla. Countess Ursa told her that she wouldn't stand by her if she provoked a duel with Pre Vizsla." He heard.

The holo newsletter debriefed that her demise was an administrative error on the House Vizsla’s delivered report, a bizarre rare occurrence, or as a gossip muttered, "Countess Sasha speculated that this was Governor Vizsla’s PR strategy. Declare them dead prematurely, give them glory. Declare them dead, wait for them to resurrect, now that's glory."

Her survival alongside Quen Vizsla had already been updated before they transported her inside. He never heard that–-no, no Wren felt him worthy enough to keep him informed-–that the death count had been revised and obituaries revoked. No one wanted to save him the labor of the  _Momento Mori_.

One Wren, Two Vizslas bodies found. But the rest of the supposed dead snuck underground, digging on all fours, by the lead of Ursa Wren and Quen Vizsla, who ended up in the cramped spaces of an ancient mine, where their chances of contact were temporarily broken. Their leadership and fortitude was no greater proof of their match ever existed.

On his trips to the pantry, he could hear the whispers of relatives, “After that close call, the Countess is eager to proceed to the wedding with Vizsla.”

And then a few days later, the sounds of the comet, and he didn't need to look out the window to verify it was a dream and the thunder of equilibrium had been reinstated. 

 _Thank the fates that I'll leave her not with a Momento Mori, but a resurrection piece._ He had opted not to ask if he was allowed to visit her in the hospital ward. It was best if she remembered him by his final bow. 

He nodded at his still-sealed baggage with satisfaction.  


	13. Pledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet eyes.

He sketched spring-like scribbles and nondescript ovals and circles at its own spontaneous pattern, a nothing-special filler exercise taught in basic classes. 

_His wrist circled another whirl when-_

A knock.

“Come in.“

In came Countess Ursa Wren, attired in a dark tunic worn underneath armor, with the scent of bacta on her skin, a lingering effect of five days of submerged treatment post-homecoming, post-resurrection.

“Are you well?“ She stepped over crumbled parchment and empty jars without looking down.

“Oh, um, yes.“ He ran his hand through his hair. He really should’ve tidied his space.  “But are you well, Countess?“

“Yes. Full recovery.“ The bottom of her boot smashed upon a wad of paper like delicate bones shattering.

“That is good.“

“And have you recovered?“

“Yes, never better.“

_Nothing but the scratch of the pencil moving to another whirl._

“The path of a warrior is never clear.“

“I can see that.” He turned to the halos of scribbles on his sketch. “Even artists are at a loss for inspiration… Thank you for checking up on me. But an artist's block is not as... calamitous as... a wounded warrior.“

He waited for her next word. Ten seconds passed.  _Continue his circular scribbles to fill in the time_ , to look occupied in front of her.

His hand was still maneuvering when he looked up from his sketch. He could do this with his eyes closed, his hand continuing its circular path like a reflex. Despite the hardness of her expression, he could discern the budge of a swallow at her black collar.

 _One new circle finished._  “Ashes were sent to throne room.”

“That was amusing. I’ve actually kept the urn as a souvenir of my survival against fiery death.“ _Two circles, one oval drawn._  Now her eyes darted to the side, aiming at the suitcase at the wall.

“You sure rose from the ashes.“ His mind turned to the  _Momento Mori_ , hanging over his bed, as an outdated reminder to complete it.

 _Three small ovals appeared beneath his hand. And then five more large circles, then three small circles, two ovals._ He met her eyes again, waiting for another word. _Three large ovals, each shrinking in size. Two more circles, one small, one larger._ Perhaps she was just content with standing and looking down watching his work more than chatting with him.  _One circle, one oval, side-by-side, an evolution of shape._

Now she glanced over at his traveling baggage.

“You said before you were no Wren.

"That is correct."

"So if I asked you to become a Wren, would you accept?“

_A sharp panicked zig-zag pierced through the ovals._

He sucked his cheek. Such an extreme, something that played to a fantasy, fairy tale length. But he couldn’t answer dishonestly.

“Yes. I do.“  _More zig-zags, now the chaos had initiated upon his exercise._

Countess Ursa Wren sunk on her knee to the speckled-paint-stained ground, head bowed down, and her descending knee crushing a stray crumbled paper wad without missing a beat.

_The zig-zags straightened into a line that seemed eternal until his hand and pencil fell from the cliff of his sketchbook.  
_

_**“Ursa.“**_  How did the Countess go from looking down, to looking up at him?

“Krownest couldn’t have found a better Count.“

"Count?"

The opportunity–-temptation–-lay before him as he scrambled to pick up his fallen pencil. He could kneel down, to meet eyes on equal level, to exchange the pledge. He had dated men and women alike, although the drudgery of debts had swayed him away from the leisures of romances, and he had not prioritized the ideas of romances for them to be at the forefront of his conscience, and now he wished that it were, for he needed the time. But right now, he could leap, as an experimenter does according to the adage, "leap toward the unknown," and fall into the impulse. 

“But Vizsla is your Count. You made a pledge to Vizsla. He was the man at your side. He’s an honorable man."

“True, Quen Vizsla is honorable, in that he respects my refusal and my choices with no grudge."

"But you love each other. I painted the very portrait!" And it was one of his favorites still.

"You painted a romantic legend, as it was the truth then, and there's no error in that. But our pledge was based on the profit of connections from the start. Everyone knew that. Everyone celebrated that, even. Our friendship, that love we did manage to build, allowed that motive to proceed with more ease. But in the dark of those mines, we both could see it. We love each other as brother- and sister-in-arms, rather than husband and wife. I will pass my reasons to my Clan, as Quen would to his, to assuage any tension. Clan Vizsla and Clan Wren aren’t less united by my refusal. Even if Pre Vizsla has the spite, Clan Wren's service is too invaluable for him to release us from our collaborative efforts. Both Clans will have to learn to understand that. If I enter a union that goes against my heart, what example will I be setting for my Clan?“

A Clan. “And what example will I be to your Clan Wren? I’m not the warrior you, they, want.“

“It’s true I dreamed of a warrior. But now I find it advantageous to have a husband who doesn’t fly into crossfires. Clan Wren will accept you. They can see past this class controversy better than Clan Vizsla.“

“Because they can’t deny the word of the Chieftess? Or because they actually like me?“

“Don’t underestimate your charms. Do you want this to be a dream or real?” Now there was a gleam of a plea in her eyes.

He edged forward, remaining in his seat, but the smell of bacta provoked his eyes into watering.

“Ursa, can I take a warrior that flies into crossfires?“ He gestured toward the half-finished  _Momento Mori_ over his bed.

Ursa glanced at it, eyes softened, and she rose, forgoing the poise of her pledge. She took off her glove and hovered her hand over it, glancing at him for consent. He nodded, and she ran her palm delicately over the blank space, the negative space beneath the unformed red of flames that was intended to be ashes.

“Do you know what happens when a Mandalorian warrior is near death, but has time to think?“

“Vaguely.“ Warrior curriculum was banned from most official Mandalore schools, though the history holos didn’t stop alluding to the warrior roots.

“They will see the faces of their living loved ones to say farewell. And I was saying goodbye to the face of a man who could be my husband, and it wasn’t Quen Vizsla’s face.“

She drew an invisible halo on the negative space, those white ashes, with a delicate forefinger. “If you were bleeding and dying on the battlefield, whose faces will you see?“

He hand tightened on his pencil as he shut his eyes and saw in the darkness, his mother, his father, uncles and aunts who rubbed his hair, his art teachers…

By the time he opened his eyes, Ursa had re-kneeled to his floor, rejoining the paper wads and paint stains.

He kept his answer concise, picked out what was relevant to the suspense. “I see a new portrait of you.“

He forgot to place his pencil and sketchbook of chaos elsewhere when he descended into the impulse, onto the paint-streaked floor, their eyes on equal terms.


	14. Integration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like him, they didn't expect that he would be their new Count.

There was no ceremonial engagement fanfare, except the word-of-mouth, starting from Countess Sasha, who reportedly debriefed, "Countess Ursa has found a more suitable Count. We welcome my sister's choice, so by that extension, welcome him."

Back then, he'd just get to the pantry to grab food for his quarters. Now he was suddenly dining with the Wrens, next to Ursa, who was at the head of the table, and trying to steady his hand when lifting a silverware and not to make eye contact with the Wrens. Though when he bothered, he expected the perplexity and grudging glares, but no one raised their blasters at him. Castro Wren had no irritation, but he looked absolutely befuddled, as if a Shriek-hawk was sitting among them. Sasha was blank. Though Countess Anna Wren gave a glance that, not unlike a college friend trying to play it cool, suggested a "I knew it" cocky grin. 

And he found a humorous awkwardness in being walked to his quarters by Ursa, trading a goodnight kiss with her, feeling the squeeze of her hand, before she would walk off to her own quarters.

He had mixed emotions over dropping the pencil or paintbrush whenever someone of Clan Wren, from adult, elder, to child, invited him to their leisures and routines. He made no sign that he was going to change his station as an artist, but knowing the values of Clan Wren, it was appropriate to train as a warrior as if he would bear the mantle.

The rest of the Wrens, when they outgrew their befuddlement over the live-in artist who stole the Countess from the Vizsla, found themselves taking considerable pleasure in giving him unsolicited advice for the Wren mantle ("stand straight, you got no helmet yet, but walk as if you have one under your arm”). They would pull him into the smithing chamber to tutor him in forging armor with slabs of _beskar_ to work with.

He had been dutifully coloring armors prior to the engagement, but forging was a foreign skillset for him. For days, scraps of misshapen armor and helmets that were victims of his novice smithing would be tossed aside. Yet, as someone who dabbled in sculpting, the armor craftsmanship did grow on him and he made an armor that earned the nods of his in-laws-to-be. Teaching their new recruit gave them a sort of thrill, perhaps a power, they could not have exercised with the life-long warrior Quen Vizsla.

What he did end up looking forward to were the jetpack lessons, which were a thing in some physical education courses on Mandalore--if they weren't banned. Flight itself was a mixed bag for him. He did savior the adrenaline, especially with the company of new relatives guiding him, but it was something that sapped him quickly. Especially when he found himself face-down in the frigid snow or with a Wren wrapping bacta patches around his legs and arms or his skull throbbing when it struck the ceiling.

What he looked less forward to were the target practice, earning head-shakes as his blasts sailed over the target and onto the wall. It got to the point where Ursa tutored him privately (leading to playful teases at the idea of the engaged Countess alone with the artist).

He was deemed an adequate warrior when his shots consistently hit the far periphery of the bull-eyes.

* * *

 “So, how many warriors will you give to Clan Wren?"

At first, he hadn’t really processed Countess Anna's meaning. His mind panicked into believing that he would have to lead an army and recruit warriors, until common sense calmed him. And then tensed him up again. Warriors left. Warriors came back when they could. Warriors don’t come home sometimes. Warriors can get _Momento Mori_ before the age of 30.

Then three young Wrens emerged from the corner, their fingers and palms shaped into make-believe blasters, having liberated themselves from the confinement of the nursery and puttering their "Pow! Pow!" to shoot at each other.

He allowed a smile at his to-be sister-in-law and gestured at the jumping children. "Three would do."

"Fair number." The Countess remarked. "That's the best way for the Wrens to continue directly."

She cleared her throat, a cue that she was going to get lost in a story. "Of course, you know I wasn't always a Wren. I was from what you would call a lesser Clan, but we had plenty of glory to claim, but not enough to endure. You see, we thought we could survive on glory alone, but our family just disappeared. We didn't die out by blasters. We died out by having other aspirations, with each cousin, aunt, uncle pursing outside-Mandalore life beyond our family business and we just dwindled to the point our wealth melted away. I thought I would stay. I tried squeezing and bluffing for for invites into Clan social events just to revive any status. Luckily, I had a relative who saved the late Countess San Wren once, and that was my ticket into Wren assemblies. Then I met Sasha, who made sure I got every invite to Wren parties I could get, who cared nothing of my obscurity."

They watched one kid collapse to the ground, shot by his sibling.

"What a situation. Marrying into another Clan meant I could have to surrender my name, to have all the advantages of a powerful Clan, to comply with their tradition. But if I were to marry a lesser person to add to my old Clan, it wouldn't hold up. I supposed my Clan was never to last, so I gave into the Wren name because it could go on forever and zero pressure to have progeny for me. It was a disloyal act of jumping ship. But I knew if I stayed with my old name, I would soon be Clan-less. They say a dishonorable death is the worst fate, but for me, being Clan-less would be Hell..."

She was continuing on to rambling length, but now he had his eyes on the three occupied children, the vision of progeny. The possibility of marriage lingered in his mind as he sketched impressions in college, but he was preoccupied with his tuition debts to really put a hunt for a spouse and family at the top of his list. So when engaged to Ursa, he just drifted with the flow, with the requests of his relatives, with expectations rather than plans. He expected that he’ll be happy. He expected that Ursa will be happy. He expected worry along the way whenever she left. And yes, he expected children resulting from their union (”ASAP,” the relatives urged), but watching the young Wrens now, he had to figure a plan, not just go by a passive expectation, of how to raise warriors. Warrior-trained as he was, he was no warrior but he shouldn’t leave the work to Ursa.

The children aimed their hand-blasters at both Anna and him.

"Surrender to the kids." Anna advised with a playful smile.

The littlest Wren, about five, aimed her finger at his heart, which was uncovered by the Wren-forged armor. “Bang!

He mimed choking and theatrically clutching his internal organs. “Got me!“

"Surrender!”

He rose his hands in surrender.

“Kneel, Duchess!” she shrieked.

At this, his knees locked and he did not submit.

“Mandalore reclaimed!“ The little girl hollered triumphantly and she vanished down the corridor after her playmates to their next mission.


	15. Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At their wedding, he assumed the role of a thespian in a theatrical performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter, there is a love scene with applied minimalism that keeps it from being sexy-times graphic.

At the foot of the throne, Ursa Wren and him recreated their the kneel of their pledge, their helmets resting on the floor. He tried to ignore the weight of his new gold-painted armor on him and maintained his eyes on hers.

Together now, watch her lips so they could maximize synchronization.

_“Mhi solus tome,”_

Countess Sasha, who stood at the side, had carefully conducted their rehearsal, and he could see her from his peripheral vision.

_“mhi solus dar'tome,"_

They were thespians of a theatrical performance.

_"mhi me'dinui an,”_

And thus, their mutual pledge on his paint-stained floor over the wads of paper had fulfilled its validation.

 _“Mhi ba'juri verde.”_  

And then he noticed the mild flap of Sasha’s fingers, his cue.

Remaining on his knees, he scooted to face the crowd of Wrens, these warriors and pledged to them.

_“Mhi solus tome,_

_mhi solus dar'tome,_

_mhi me'dinui an,"_

He saw the face of the little girl, a Wren relative, who made him play surrender, who did not yet wear armor.

 _"Mhi ba'juri verde.”_   _We will raise warriors._

 _Warriors._  Unbidden from his mind, he saw their blurry-faced child shooting the Duchess.

But even with this unwelcomed vision, he rose on time, as soon as his eye caught her movement. His face was free to tense up into what he imagined was a grimace when he and Ursa rose to formally return the helmets to their head. Then Ursa reached for his hand, steely eyes peering through her visor, and she stroked his hand, sensing the tension within it, and easing the tremors into stillness.

Clan Wren all kneeled down to the Countess and her new Count.

Hand-in-hand, he and Ursa knelt down before their Clan and removed their helmets in unison, choreography Countess Sasha had supervised.

By the time he pulled off his helmet, he was able to look placid and committed once again.

* * *

He fumbled with his Wren armor. She aided him. Once his chest was free for a deep inhale and exhale, she gave no instructions as he unclasped her armor and removed the rest. While the Wrens had been seizing him for exercises, he had yet to attain the ideal fitness of a warrior and his face heat up with embarrassment.

But once all protections clattered and dropped to the floor, everything proceeded, with chuckles, apologies for fumbles, twinkles in their eyes, blushes, an escalation of ragged breaths, a de-escalation of sighs, escaped giggles, secrets exchanged, beneath the shelter and shadows of the Wren ancestral home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was honored with loyal reader [Countessofkrownest](https://countessofkrownest.tumblr.com/) providing [a short depiction of this chapter](http://amaximinalist.tumblr.com/post/165558034383/amaximinalist-countessofkrownest-not-too). This person had actually made Tumblr posts that sparked the process of this fanfiction as I was making tongue-in-cheek posts about the yet-to-be-seen-together Wren couple.
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to [Izzyovercoffee on Tumblr](http://izzyovercoffee.tumblr.com/) for giving me the script of Mandalorian wedding vows and for serving as a Mandalorian culture consultant.


	16. Birth of a Portent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take long for a portent to follow after the birth of Count Tristan Wren.

On the days he stared at the clouds, he could expect her to materialize, to emerge in the flesh. He saw the shape of Ursa appear from the carrier and let out a sigh of relief that he had grown accustomed to.

If she came home, then any of her missions, goal achieved or not, was a triumph.

To his astonishment, she slapped her jetpack on and flew toward him and landed inches from him like a feather. When she doffed her helmet, the beaming urgency in his face immediately lit elation within him. “It has happened.“

She guided his hand to the slight budge on her armor. Something beat from within and his chest tightened.

"So soon." He had envisioned having children in his thirties, but so soon in his early twenties? Of course, they already planned to have children soon for Clan Wren, but he could barely believe that this had fallen from the clouds.

“If the child kicks like a drum, our child will be a strong warrior.”

"Our child has a rhythm."

* * *

 Screaming louder than the Krownest blizzard, their first warrior spilled out into the midwife’s hands.

He barely remembered the midwife teaching him how to fold the swaddling blanket over this fragile thing. He barely remembered Ursa’s feeble fingers tracing his tears. He barely remembered waggling his fingers at the wet newborn in his bassinet. He barely remembered re-swaddling his son then carrying him to the window to point to the landscape and muse, "This is your home." He barely remembered a render of a small penciled sketch of this moving thing. He barely remembered the whispers of Ursa and her grandmother's Mandalorian lullaby ( _"Hush, or you'll miss the sound of the fire..."_ ).

Next thing he knew, it was the morning after, when the baby was of good health to carried beyond the birth chamber, Ursa stood in front of her throne with the bundle in her arms, which fed at the gap at her birthing tunic, worn as if she had just given birth. He stood by her side.

It was odd. He’ll be the one drawing the ones on the throne. 

“Tristan. Count Tristan Wren. For the moment he escaped from my womb, he screamed a healthy battle cry. He is named for his grandfather, veteran of the Mandalorian Civil War.“ 

All Wrens below bowed to their new Count. 

Ursa, son in her arms, then bowed to the Clans. He mirrored her descent.

_“View from the Throne.” Working title. There was none of him, Ursa, nor the new baby in this one. There were the Wrens and the red-hair of Bo-Katan below. “A Leader’s Point-of-View.” No. **“Leaders’ Vantage.”**_

She rose her heir to the air, so their firstborn could behold the faces of his Clan.

* * *

He was occupied with impression of Krownest on this blizzard-less that day. Not much to update with its trees and cloudy skies. When he heard the transport returning back to base, he was too fixed on coloring the last of the trees. By the time he headed home, he was thinking of Tristan’s feeding time.

He hadn’t seen any of the warrior Wrens around that much. They were probably assembling in the throne chamber or off doing Krownest business.

He could hear Tristan crying. But when he opened the doors to the nursery, he saw a stranger, clad in night-blue Mandalorian armor, grayer than the skies of Krownest, kneeling to his son, who was out of his crib and howling.

It looked as if a darker Vizsla had infiltrated them.

He was locked on the spot. The stranger didn’t even seem to notice him as their dark gloves reached toward his son, who recoiled and swatted at their hands.

The stranger removed her helmet. Tristan ceased his howls, his fright calming into perplexity.

But Tristan’s father didn’t release a breath of relief just yet.

The next noise that proceeded was Ursa chuckling remorsefully, as she scooped up her son to her dark armor.

“At least our little Count still recognizes our family colors. But he’ll adjust to these colors.“

She looked at her husband. And for a moment, a flicker of dread seemed to flash in her eyes, even with her smile intact. 

“I frightened you.“

“Yes.“ He breathed a sigh of relief. “I take it that it’s a matter with Pre Vizsla.“

Ursa bit her smiling lips, which faded into a glum shape.

“That’s right. Pre Vizsla has declared that a portent has happened for our grand plan to rescue Mandalore from its period of passivity and back to its defensive, protective roots.“

“What is this good news Governor Vizsla speaks of?“

“A War. The Clone Wars. So the Jedi and Republic are kept busy. Mandalore is not part of it, not with the Duchess’s occupation talking and talking, rather than doing. But Pre Vizsla declares it a sign, that should War and chaos reach us, it’s our sacred duty to protect Mandalore. He's predicting we'll be inevitably dragged in. It wouldn't be likely this Duchess would protect us well. I predict that her illusion of peace will crumble soon." 

He swallowed. “So what does it mean?“

“Our family will be more firmly planted in battle then we ever were. This will be more than skirmishes with pirates and duels and fights over trade deals. Even the Wrens stationed at home will have to be alert.“ 

Their son was patting her chest-plate. 

He swallowed. This meant seeing Ursa less. The odds against her and their family has risen. 

“Just promise me something, love."

"Anything I can give."

"Whenever you find the time to be home, teach Trist how to shoot Jedi as soon as possible. Your warrior still needs you.“

As she nodded, a flicker of a smile reverting, he watched their heir drowsily yawn at his mother’s new chest-plate, as if now bonded with the night and gray.


	17. Premature Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countess Sabine Wren was not an mistake, though she was an accident, a fault of them leaving themselves unguarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Description of suicide ahead.

Her signature yellow armor was left sitting on the vacant spot on their bed.

* * *

The merchants in the Wrens family vanished longer than usual, continuing the family trade, conducting transaction either related or not to the Clone Wars to maintain the Wrens’ wealth.

Wrens, the ones off to battle, embraced him, embraced their children, and other young relatives, then they left. Then they came back, in armor–or in urns.

It wasn’t until he was staring at the old mosaic of a blushing Ursa did he realize that no more war-wayward Wrens asked him to paint pictures of their exploits. Even after his marriage, he was still happy to paint or design a mosaic to fulfill requests.

Though he had to be practical, as paint and other artistic material were in short supply. He had to conserve his colors. He would spend time in the nursery, assisting the nurse, watching Tristan pile holo blocks of Mandalorian alphabets to spell out gibberish, watching Tristan’s cousins, some with or without parents, toddle around. He’d watch his elder nieces and nephews fire at moving targets in the training rooms, shaping themselves for shooting Jedi.

He rarely had much opportunity to send transmissions to Ursa. Right now, any message she sent were reserved for warrior Wrens patrolling Krownest. He was always locked out of the throne room.

* * *

He awoke to the smell of ashes in their bed. When he turned, he saw the back of her, her dark armor blended with the dark. 

He reached for her gloved hand. She stroked his hand back.

“We’re only here to ship off supplies for our next mission. We leave in the evening.“

“Love, your armor, let yourself breathe.“

“Too heavy,“ she mumbled, slipping in a playfulness. “Why won’t you remove this weight?“

The armor clattered to the floor with a satisfactory thunk. And having that space to breathe, her eyes revitalized. She embraced him and he tasted soot in her breath, which lingered in his mouth as he stared at the speck of her ship vanishing in the clouds.

* * *

He had his first surge of artistic inspiration since the The Clone Wars. He didn't want to leave the Wren Archives un-updated. With the non-confidential passing mentions of casualties he overheard at the dinner table, he now had materials, something worthy to require his rationed art supply. Everyone was prioritizing surviving, rather than living forever. But he could give immortality while he was at it.

He heard names, he overheard a visiting Castro Wren telling a story to his youngest nephews, muttering names, the fallen, without much elaboration, but he caught a “Quen Vizsla” among the fallen. 

* * *

 Only Ursa, during yet another short-lived visit, got to view the first historical Wren painting during this Clone War era.

“Is that... Quen?“ And sorrow passed over her face.

_In the brushstrokes, all her Death Watch comrades wore identical armor, making them a heap of indistinguishable limp mannequins. But in an act of artistic license, the fallen Wrens (12 featured, the total so-far) were golden. But Quen Vizsla lay in the margins of the golden cluster of Wrens. But he marked Quen Vizsla’s armor, the sole gray mannequin with any original mark on him, with the white wolf, despite knowing he likely wouldn’t have worn it in battle, to make him distinguishable to the eye._

“Yes, I overheard he died in battle, quite bravely.“

“This is the story you’ve heard.“

Her teeth went over her lips.

“Quen Vizsla survived the battle of…” She stopped before she could spill out the location. Even these matters were of confidentiality in their bedroom. “We won. Quen Vizsla went into his tent. And then while fetching him for a recon, I found him on the ground, blaster beside him. I suppose our revelry was somehow louder than the blast. He had to fire at his own armor about more than twice so it could penetrate him. Pre Vizsla gave him a Mandalorian pyre.“

She turned bitter and shut her eyes. “Pre Vizsla made a show of it. He muttered, “coward” under his breath, I was close enough to hear it. His own cousin! But Vizsla wouldn’t have his family branch tainted. So his records would state that Quen Vizsla perished due to wounds inflicted by the enemy, died heroically.”

A huff of breath.

He wasn't aware what his expression was, but perhaps he looked inquisitive enough for her to explain,

“Pre Vizsla demands clean jobs. He prefers Vizsla hands to do it. In some ways, that spares us and the other Clans from doing the dirtiest of his work. All executioners are the hands of Vizsla…“ 

Ursa’s palm massaged the dark plains beneath her eyes.

“We’ve fallen into no-prisoners-taken circumstances in war. Quen did what was asked of him. Fired his guns, burned the... mess… Before he performed his final execution on himself.”

Bizarre. Quen Vizsla, a man he never spoke to, a man who did collide into him once but with no malice, an old rival of sorts, was not Clan Wren. He wondered if Clan Vizsla was the Clan to hire an in-resident Historian-Illuminator. While it was a vision that he would not bother with, he could sketch the Quen Vizsla’s  _Momento Mori. Am armored man burning, between the sky and ground, and Quen Vizsla, looking down at the heap of unarmored bodies, the wolf on his armor howling-_

“I also have news.“ Ursa was set on converting this subject matter.

“Good or bad? Or good-bad news?“

“It’s too soon.”

Then she laid a hand on her abdomen.

Suddenly, elation trickled up his spine but converted into the dread that slumped down his throat.

“I’m carrying another Count or Countess.” And she rubbed her forehead, sheepish, with the hint of a bitter chuckle. “That night two months ago, we were unguarded.”

Both the reflexive elation and the shivers of fear stayed in his stomach.  “What happens next?“ They both had talked about children, not a child, children. Three. They never wanted Tristan to be their only.  But as much as this happenstance aligned with old desires…

“I do not know. But I do know this, I have to continue my obligations to our House, away from home."

“Can't you serve your House from home? We’re raising a Clan."

“And this Clan lives to serve _our_ House.“

He sniffed. “There’s no stopping you.“

“I’ll request to stay back from the frontlines. Pre Vizsla at least respects when a parent needs to protect their cubs."

She guided his hand to the armor. He feared that he would hear no rhythm. But soon, as if his touch activated movement, the thumps beat against his palm.

"A warrior."

Though the rhythm was uneven, off-beat, as if it was just an imprisoned butterfly jittering in Ursa Wren's belly. 

* * *

 Three days after Ursa left, Trist was babbling "Mum, mama, mama." This prompted him to plop Tristen into the arms of the nurse and ventured to the workshop area where he forged his ceremonial armor, which he had not donned since the wedding. "Make me useful." He asked one of the relatives, a distant cousin-in-law. 

"You're doing enough, helping to watch the children."

"I mean... for her war, this war. For your, um, our House."

He did not believe that he would revert to his mechanical skills for this purpose, having despited his old repair gigs on Mandalore. He recorded not history, or Wren tall-tales, but he designed the explosives, under the tutelage of relatives, starting with the shells, from the basic level. Not the mini-paint bombs for the Wren children and Tristan, but weapons with every intent to detonate or blast a smoke-screen. He carefully set the locked bomb onto the self. What a strange art there was to war. 

He held the sphere containing smoke-screen. It shaped like a planet with bumps. Ursa and her fighting Wrens shouldn’t be one sphere less from victory–-and survival.

* * *

Something happened. The only thing he was told was that the group had been severely compromised. Outed.

Everyone from the Wren establishments on Mandalore had "evacuated." Other Clans, from Saxon, to Ronin, to Kast, had evacuated their Mandalore's homes as well, exiled to their colonized planets. Less fortunate Clans reportedly had to settle for non-Mandalorian territories on backwater planets.

"The Duchess... we never accepted her rule. It was about time she would try to terminate us out of our homes." Castro Wren, his children now permanent residents on Krownest, bemoaned.

Only a few Wrens were allowed to trade transmissions with her, which devastated him. He would wait outside the debriefing doors, watch the warriors of Wrens depart from a meeting and even plead for information, but they would tell him, "Your wife and child are in good health," nothing more. All Wrens stopped sending supplies out, citing that their deliveries to secret addresses could be traced to Krownest.

He distracted himself from thoughts of Ursa, the baby, and family starving out there. He spent his days distracting Tristan from his desperate articulation of questions (”Did mama die glory?”) by reading a holo-book or rattling toys before Tristan. Due to the horrible blockade, there were no sweets to appease Tristan. No transmission from his mother.

* * *

 Then finally, after an eternity, the carrier descended from the sky.

But the first thing that emerged was a Wren pushing out a hovering pod with a blurry viewing window. And faster before he could peer into the ice of the window to discern its contents, a stretcher with his wife was hauled out and he instinctively sprung to her, having been deprived of her presence and feeling the flutters in her belly for months.

“Vizsla’s mission, a petty detour… Petty man, petty hedonist…” She muttered as the Krownest light shined on her face. “Those children…” 

His world went dark into a prolonged blink. He last seen Ursa, when she was showing two-months-worth, but her belly showed no glaring bloat. The war had hollowed her already. 

Once the stretcher took her inside, she demanded to stop, and he realized that she spied Tristan, in hot pursuit by his nurse, dashing toward her. The boy leaned his head against her chest and she shooed off the Wrens trying to restrain the boy so he could climb onto her chest.

The artist knelt down and grabbed his wife's stiff hand, kissing it.

“Those young girls,“ Ursa muttering, seemingly oblivious to Tristen sobbing on her chest and the man kissing her hand.

Then Ursa’s eyes widened, a delay of a realization, and she snatched her hand away from him, though she kept the other hand on the bewildered Tristan’s back, to clutch her hollowed-belly. 

_“How is she? Where is she?“_

And he realized what was inside the pod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dialogue about headcanons and Mandalorians and the Clone Wars welcomed_


	18. A Countess on Carlac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But those who had participated in the war couldn't illuminate this pride over Countess Sabine Wren's birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is some maternal nudity ahead.

He was allowed to dip his fingers into the liquid. The delicate skin wrapped around his forefinger. And the baby eyes peeled open into a squint then closed again, unable to withstand the light.

"Please, be a little less blue for us, little Bean." Ursa had been in a daze for weeks in the infirmary and rarely even asked to be wheeled to the baby's room to see her. 

The new Countess did not scream a battle cry when she broke from her mother, Sasha testified, for she was blue as the night ice. But then she broke out into cries when Pre Vizsla snatched the bundle, as if he sired her, to show off his soldiers, “This child is a good omen, the first star to foretell the rebirth of Mandalore’s fire.“

He granted Ursa the right for a temporary leave, so the “Mother can shape that cub.” His victory had put him in that altruistic mood.

She didn't have the strength to latch on to her mother, so they fed her milk from the intravenous tube. Every day for about five hours, under sharp supervision and careful precision, they moved the infant from her normal incubator to half-submerge the child in bacta mixed with Kamino-designed fluids, in the shelter of a specialized incubator with a sloped design, where Sabine could lie down and be immersed from chest up, so the liquid could accelerate the growth of her body to a healthy frame. 

“See, Trist, this is your sister. The little Bean,“ he would say to Tristan, holding him up to see the fraught infant. “She’s a strong one, she’s named for strength of a hundred Mandalorians in an army."

But when Tristan was not there, the father would sadly stare at the child when they laid her into another bacta-bath.

“I’m so sorry. Your mother and I didn’t mean to make you grow up so fast.” 

Now he buried his face in his hands, to blink away the fault he placed this tiny child in.

"Too soon, Sabine. Too soon, Sabine. We didn't want to put you in such a bad time."

At least the rest of the family would have a consolation: their new baby Countess born in the battlefield, born of glory, that would’ve been a celestial honor for warriors, to be born near the heat and glory of war. The Wrens would be in love with this tale, something to pass generation to generation. 

* * *

 To their relief, Sabine survived to a healthy frame, enough so Ursa, attired in her night-blue Death Watch armor, could hold out the new young Countess to behold her Clan.

“Sabine. Countess Sabine Wren. She emerged from the the scorches of the battlefield.”

 He knew the next line in the script, which she rehearsed from the bed,  _she was born from victory._

“She was born a survivor.”

He imagined the view from the suspended baby’s eyes, assuming that Sabine even had her eyes opened, for she always seemed to be asleep with her prolonged blink, her eyes sensitive to light.

Those in the golden Wren colors cheered. Half of the Wrens, especially the young ones, were in love with the “baby on the battlefield” tale, in envy of the privilege this one had. Tristan, thrashing in his arms, even knew to squeal in delight.

What surprised him the most, was that the Wrens in the night-blue armor, those in close attendance and witness to the battlefield birth, shared applauses and smiles, but there was something non-committal in their gestures, anchored in restrained respect as oppose to the cheering Wrens in gold.

Bo-Katan Kryze, the sole non-Wren in the crowd, was as solemn as the gray-clad Wrens.

With Sabine tucked in Ursa's arms, she took her seat at the throne and he sat next to her, with Tristan in his arms pointing curiously at his sister.

Bo-Katan was first in line to greet the new Countess, perhaps determined to be the first to touch the good fortune of a newborn Clan warrior and take it to the battlefield, all the waiting Wrens behind her. He raised his brows when Bo-Katan extended her gloved hands, beckoning to hold the Countess, though he understood it was against custom for a non-Clan member to _hold_ a newborn Countess on her first few days.

But Ursa lowered their daughter onto the lieutenant's arms, as if Bo-Katan Kryze was a long-time Wren, though perhaps, he speculated, because Bo-Katan outranked Ursa on the battlefield, Ursa had to defer.

The lieutenant of House Viszla stared at the child, and in a rare instance where the child had her eyes opened, perhaps since the shade of this stranger woman protected her from the light, Sabine seemed to be hypnotized by Bo-Katan eyes. The lieutenant muttered, "Vizsla is... proud of where she came from," and she did not relinquish the Countess to her mother until Sabine begin the first whines of her crying pangs. "Your Countess truly is a favorite of Vizsla."

Unbidden, the poisonous, faithless theory dared passed through his skull, despite the reasonable calculation of his time spent with Ursa and Sabine's resemblance to him: Sabine was truly a Vizsla, a byproduct of Ursa being away from home too long, and maybe the Wrens on the battlefield had their suspicions about their new Countess. Though he would learn not to care. He would still hold his finger out for Sabine to catch. He would still make goofy grin for Sabine. He would still embrace Ursa when she made her homecoming, still breathing. Now Tristan was beating against his chest, for he hadn't realized he was squeezing his son too tightly.

* * *

 But it wasn’t until two nights after Countess Sabine Wren’s christening did he comprehend why the dark-clad Wrens, even Ursa, limited their pride about Sabine’s birth, and the ugly theory died for the carcass of the truth.

Ursa made the confession in their bedroom, with no armor nor tunic nor undergarments covering her upper body, only Sabine clothing her bareness, as if any article of clothing would strain her breathing. She looked both trapped, with the shape of the newborn latched to her, but also liberated in her bareness.

“Little girls…” She paused. Then she looked into his eyes, with understanding, trust. “On Carlac. It was a long emergency detour after…” Another confidential pause, then a sigh. “Our troops sought aid from a nearby village. What hospitality. I couldn’t hide my belly from the native women’s eyes. They gave me the special treatment, their herbs, their tea, to ease the pain. They even sang songs around it. Everyone, Wrens, Saxons, and Kasts and others were befriending the natives.”

“But then Pre Vizsla made a claim that the chieftan of the natives insulted and conspired against him. So he gave the order to take restitution from the village. He ordered the native girls to become his servants, to compensate for the insult, promised to return them.” 

When a warrior Mandalorian insulted a Mandalorian, this opens grounds for a duel. But when an outlander insulted a Mandalorian, outlanders were rarely considered on equal footing to be worthy of duels.

“I was in good shape… thanks to what the villagers had provided me. That moment, Pre Vizsla saw no reason to keep me back. I carried out the order. That’s when the pangs started.“

And then Sabine broke away to emit a yawn. Ursa did not even look down, but fell quiet, wary of the baby’s movement. And then Sabine returned her lips to Ursa’s breast.

“Every night, I dream that Vizsla will order me to point the trigger at our daughter. In those dreams, I obey. When… Sabine found the health to scream in Vizsla’s arms, it was like she was screaming for the fallen girls.”

And then Ursa, with resolve, stared down at the creature at her breast, having regained the confidence to look her daughter in the eyes.

“The Wrens at her birth are so proud of her. They want her to know that.”

Then he couldn’t help but to finish it, “But they’re not proud of how she came. How they played their part in it.” 

Ursa’s eyes flickered and distracted themselves with the sight of her child.

_Correct._

* * *

Carlac was a forbidden word. Records would say that Countess Sabine Wren was born on Krownest, Mandalorian territory. "For if Countess Sabine was fully formed on Krownest, then that is her birthplace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was perhaps the most difficult chapter to compose.
> 
> Dialogue and comments welcomed. 
> 
> The makings of this chapter was inspired by a speculation made by Tumblr's [Fandumb and Flummery](http://fandumbandflummery.tumblr.com/), regarding [Ursa’s pregnancy and her station on Carlac.](http://fandumbandflummery.tumblr.com/post/157415112148/so-legacy-of-mandalore-made-me-realize)
> 
> Also, the "newborn Sabine lifted by Vizsla's hands as if she belonged to a Vizsla" was inspired by [Ambiguously's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguously/pseuds/ambiguously) fanfiction ["Heart of Mandalore."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10967280)


	19. The Climax of Mandalore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandalore crumbles as the new Countess Sabine Wren flourishes

Sabine showed no signs that she was born from horrors, nothing in her mannerisms indicated that she poured out from the fire of screaming girls shot-down by Vizsla and her own mother. 

Sabine's tiny lips accepted the bottle easily when Ursa left.

Now everyday was a pursuit of distraction, chasing Tristan, with Sabine latched to his chest, or reading to the children, touring them around the gallery of Archives. Tristan yawned at the portraits but Sabine would point at the swirls and babble as if articulating some question about their origins and techniques.

Unlike Tristan, Sabine never asked,

"Where's Mama?" 

"Out, Trist. As always. Fighting the war." The boy really seem to favor hearing that answer constantly.

"Where's the war?"

"I do not know. Only she does."

"Why don't you fight?"

"I'm not a warrior."

"You warrior."

"I'm not. I'm an artist, historian. Also, was my mother's mechanic apprentice. But I’m all artist."

"But you got armor."

"I do. That makes me a Wren, but not a war person."

And he remembered that when he was in the testing room in the stronghold's workshop, a breathing mask latched to his face, when he rolled out one of his creations and found himself cloaked in a smog of purple clouds, thick so the user can flee with the enemy's vision obstructed. He had graduated from designer to tester and fellow Wrens nodded in approval.

* * *

 Sabine was toddling on her feet, and she was just as undisciplined in her style as he was in his teens, a natural-born splatterer, flinging gold and yellow onto the canvas and squealing, “See daddy!” She flung marble-sized paint bombs at Tristan in the nursery. She hurled them at her father in the snow, aiming to streak his tunic, leaving dollops of paint in the snow.

“That’s my little expressionist!“

She would sneak below his busy arms and pat her finger on the wet paint of his canvas. 

“Whoops, kiddo, it’s not ready for touching.” He scooped her away from the wet paint. 

She had a blood-colored dot on her delicate forefinger, as if she were bleeding. She poked her father’s chest, leaving a red dot on the heart of his tunic then pointed at the red on the canvas.

He explained, for her education, “A Zabrak. Outlander, native to Dathomir.“ He had peered through the Archives to aid him in the depictions of Zabraks. Word was that there were two Zabraks. But he opted to paint the prominent red one for now. He chose to paint this piece, for he liked practicing on painting the unknown, the alien, the outside of Mandalore entities.

“I know from testimonies that your mother is working with a pair of warrior Zabraks to liberate Mandalore.” He bit his lips. He wasn't too sure what that meant. "Your mother will be home soon."

Unlike Tristan, Sabine did not scramble to Ursa's arms. He had to remind the little girl, "That's your mother," and give her a forward nudge for the little girl to be compelled to step forward toward the dark armored woman kneeling down with outstretched arms. She toddled over on her father's commands, but when she reached Ursa’s arms, she squealed, "Cold, daddy, she's smells."

"I know," crooned Ursa as she released the thrashing child to the snow to dart back to her father. "I smell like ashes, like always."

When Ursa saw the dried-out Zabrak, she wrinkled her nose in an expression of violation.

“Should I do a version where the Zabrak outlanders are absent?“ He had yet to render the second Zabrak, the brother, the one that took less priority than the blood-colored one.

She scratched her temple.

“No. Place it in the Archives. It is our history.”

And eventually, _something told him to refrain from drawing the piece with the Zabrak sitting on Mandalore’s throne, the outlander's foot resting on the helmet of Pre Vizsla._

* * *

He recognized the odor of smog from her armor, from the smoke of the smoke-bombs forged in the Wren household.

"Do you think if we were just reluctant allies first before enemies... none of this would've happened?"

He gave her the same answer. "Love, I wish I knew."

“We have no love for her, for how she sunk Mandalore!” Ursa bemoaned. “But poor Kryze. If Bo-Katan mourns for her, then I can say, poor woman. She was Bo-Katan’s family. She never deserved that throne, but still... this not the fall we wanted for her.”

Clutching her singed helmet, bruised with the silver dent on the forehead of the Nite Owl, she sat at their marriage bed, next to Sabine's crib, hummed the lullaby, or the Wren anthem, but the lyrics seemed lost to her, the tunes enmeshed, like a clutter of stardust dispersing idly among uncharted stars.

 


	20. Mandalore Reforms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count Wren knew that he preferred Mandalore without the fire of politics, but now politics had settled in, like a prolonged eye of a hurricane.

_A bonfire, the mist in the shape of Wrens huddled under the wings of a Nite Owl. The shadow of the living was visible below, present at this community vigil for the fallen Wrens that returned as ashes._

“Watch the smoke, children, those are the souls of your fallen Clan members flying into peace.“

All surviving Wrens knelt down to the smoke, with Ursa gently pushing down on Tristan and Sabine’s shoulders to remind them to bow.

This heat on Krownest was said to rival the heat of a newborn star, behind the ancestral home of Clan Wren. The light of the bonfire danced on the inquisitive expression of Tristan and Sabine and the visors of Clan Wren.

He mourned for all the Wrens that dined and jested with him, Wrens that he never met, Wrens that received their  _Momento Mori_. 

They stayed down, knees freezing on the snow for too long, but they couldn't rise, for they had to wait for the Chieftess to rise and they seemed like solemn sculptures melding into the landscape of Krownest. All Wrens delayed in ascending.

* * *

He wanted to not think and just savior the weight of a drowsy Ursa in his arms.

How Mandalore resulted in this Clone Wars aftermath had gotten all too confusing, a goldmine of nightmares for poets to transcribe into lyrics. He could not be even sure if the holos and art of Mandalorian history, in its near-infinite volumes, could keep up. 

But he had the vision of a mural too expensive and grandiose for him to produce alone:  _An imprisoned Duchess, Pre Vizsla’s Darksaber clashing with the Zabrak’s red blade, the ships of the Republic descending, the Jedi and their clones bearing the face of Jango Fett, a Togruta with a Jedi saber (though testimonies conflicted on whether she was a “Jedi”), then mysteriously, a heap of Jedi on the Mandalore grounds, and then the Republic ships in embers, and the dots of Bo-Katan Kryze and her team of Owls flying into the night. The red colors of Clan Saxon bowing to the Zabrak. In the corner, the recognizable gold of Clan Wren’s armor vanished into a smokescreen of color, in a vain attempt to opt out of the chaotic history. Over the chaos, was the monumental phantom of the Imperial crest, with its eight spokes, the steering wheel of the Empire’s hands over the muddles of Mandalore._

* * *

  **Ruling Clan Saxon to Re-Unify Mandalore**.

_Appointed by the Empire, Clan Saxon to issue unconditional pardon for all Clans, regardless of allegiance._

The headline was surreal.

He didn’t know when the Clone Wars had ended, when Ursa came and gone. When the active relic known as the Darksaber was deemed missing. He didn’t know when the Mandalorian Civil War had stopped. He was numb by that day when the " **Empire welcomes Mandalore"** headline existed, when Clan Saxon became the first to bow to the Empire, and then became figures to bow to.

He stared at Krownest's perpetual weather. The snow drifted in its flakes. Tristan rolled up snowballs to fling at relatives who would bat up their hands in defense or pantomime death to give him a victory. Sabine waded through the depth of snow at her own pace, stamping her tiny boots into the snow as if to make her footprints permanent. Vulnerable, as it may be in this territory, it seemed too cold, too impervious to fire. If there was chaos, it was buried in the veils of cold.

But headlines were streaming from Mandalore. It told of order, an obvious illusion the public willingly embraced. 

There was nothing in the headlines that spoke of Clan Saxon's new allegiance provoking controversy among the Clans. A "first come, first serve" pledge just to gain power, he heard. But some Wrens muttered, "He's trying to save Mandalore in his own way. Maybe he's on to something."

**Clan Saxon Hosts Parade to Honor Homecoming of Clans**

_The new rulers have pardoned all Clans. "Mandalore will be stronger with every Clan reinstated," says Gar Saxon._

Castro Wren and other families packed their bags with trepidation, unsure of what sort of Mandalore they would find upon homecoming.

Clan Saxon did something truly generous through their new power. They re-invited the exiled Clans, everyone, no matter their allegiance, whether to the outlander Zabrak or to Kryze's Nite Owls, to return to Mandalore, restoring the Clan Summit, to centralize warrior empowerment.

"Papa, can we go to the parade? I want to see all the warriors."

"Your mother is in attendance with uncle Castro, but she's not keen on you attending." She had told him, quite adamantly, _what message will the children get out of this? I have to go, perhaps have a word with friends in Clan Saxon._

"Why not?"

"It's hard to say."

**Clan Amari Incriminated for Rebel Conspiracy**

But perhaps there was peace, less production and delivery of weapons. Now he could redirect his energy to new pursuits, make a goal to re-study holo-arts with the intent of entertaining Tristan and Sabine. No more worries of Ursa coming home in dented armor. No more Wrens returning as ashes.

Clan Wren resumed its prosperous merchant business in the Outer Rim, not too reliant on trade with the Empire to sustain their wealth, although word was that other Clan allies have been strongly recommending the Wrens to fully employ themselves to the Empire.

**Clan Saxon Quells Rumors Over Clan Amari's Execution**

With family, like Castro, reinstated at their rightful homes on Mandalore, Ursa made trips to Sundari and stayed with politically-involved relatives, offering input in their debates and getting coached as well. 

**52 Clans Pledge to Empire**

The day came when he heard her words, the order, "We're going to Sundari." It was custom for an immediate family of Clan leaders to attend. "They need to see our family to know when we mean business."

* * *

  **Clan Saxon to Urge Remaining 23 Independent Clans to Pledge to Empire at Summit**

_To celebrate the reinstatement and pardons of Clans in Mandalorian society, Saxon hosts the first Summit since the Clone Wars with hopes of completing the unification of Mandalore._

As the carrier maneuvered beneath and above the skyscrapers of Sundari, Sabine squealed as she pointed at the foundations, her eyes hungry to touch the puzzles of protruding buildings. She was ready to dive into its new dimensions.

"I know, Bean, sunnier than Krownest." It was her first time off her home planet.

Sundari. Truth to be told, he had a bile curiosity of what had became of his old home but wanted to turn away.

Not every part of Sundari had been repaired. The tops of the buildings had dents and cracks exposed, but only if one squinted. So he choose not to look too closely and just see that smoother Sundari he was accustomed to before he became a Wren.

* * *

Ursa flipped through flashcards as Castro Wren stood over her shoulder to conduct her.

"Countess, I recommend you'll emphasize our friendship with members of Clan Saxon, don't mention the specific members, and maybe warm Gar to our independence, but make sure you pay respects to his choice and allegiance. Obviously, we have to charm Gar, out of all of them. Even Saxons who disagree with him won't be too relevant to win over."

She kept her eyes on the scribbles of words on the cards, "Thank you, cousin."

"Drop in an allusion to the Journeyman Protectors. They may have mixed feelings about House Vizsla, but they've been quite vocal with their independence, so cite inspiration with them. We'll see how they'll really feel about you crediting them or playing "alliance" with them, but that will help embolden other Clans."

She glanced at him. He was holding a wriggling Sabine, who was patting on the window over his shoulder, hypnotized by the passing hover-chairs and exteriors of Mandalore, and Tristan was lying face-down on the floor in boredom.

"Take the children around Sundari. They have to see the heart of Mandalore."

She passed him a small smile as she flipped through a flashcard.

"Ursa, come with us, take a break. And... I'll show you my family. I promised that I would."

Now her smile fell. "Now I wish I could drop everything, drop politics, but I cannot. That would mean dropping the Clan. But feel free to show Sabine and Tristan your family."

* * *

 He had to hold Sabine's hand very tightly so she wouldn't scurry off into the depths of Sundari among the pacing strangers.

"This is your grandmother and grandfather. My mother and father."

He gestured toward names on stone crypt.

"Where's their momento?" Tristan asked.

"These graves and their names are their momento." 

It has been ingrained in him that  _Momento Mori_  were for the upper-class. But if he were to get fancy, he would just design  _a simple woman leaning over nondescript machinery, invested in the benign nuts and bolts. She is not a shadow like the passing Wrens in their Momentos._

 

Tristen traced the inscription.

"Clan? This their Clan? Your Clan?"

"They're not a Clan. That's just their last names. They're just a family. There was just me and my mother for a long time and then she passed away in my first college year."

"Did your mother fight?"

"Fight? She was a protester sometimes. She is a fighter." He remembered the hiss of doors, when she would depart for a protest circle and asked if he had enough prepared sandwiches at home and to repair the engines.

"Did she shoot? Get into duels?"

"No. She was fighter, in that she protested in political circles." _Fighting_ for that _peaceful_ Mandalore, what a paradox. "But she never held a blaster, never tossed a bomb." Never designed a bomb or touched the shell of a warhead.

"Why not? But Mother's mother did."

"Yes, your grandmother on your mother's side did. Not everybody fights for something. That's just how it is. Most Wrens do that, but not all Mandalorians believe in fighting." Ursa was the only Wren aware that his late mother had formal allegiance to the Duchess Satine, a woman who aspired to be a New Mandalorian with society cleansed of warrior culture--though he never formally followed his mother's affiliation. 

He thought of how his mother, if she could be there in flesh and blood at his wedding, what quip she would say regarding Clan customs, their bows, their pledges, their warrior spirits. He imagined Clan Wren would've enjoyed her, jested with her, in spite of her conflicting beliefs. He could see her gather her grandchildren in her arms, not caring if they wore armor.

And perhaps she was blessed that she never lived to see the dents on Sundari.

"Why are they here?" The boy was used to seeing the ashes of his relatives float into the Krownest wind.

"Clan Wren scatters the ashes of their family. For my family, they stay within urns, within walls, forever." He had also imagined that was how he would be interred before he was a Wren, but that was because he feared then that no one would find his masterpieces memorable to remember him by, so he felt he might as well have his name inscribed out there. Warrior clans saw peace in liberating their stardust into the unpredictability of the wind.

But even as a Clan member now, his stardust would prefer to be locked in, to shut out the noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers invoked the deliberate choice to avoid speaking of the Wren's own family, Sabine and Tristan's paternal grandparents. But since it had such a significance presence in the comment sections, I worked in this scene in hopes of assuaging this curiosity.
> 
> Comments and discussions on this choice welcomed!


	21. The Summit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Wren's assertion for independence meets a predominantly positive reception.

He was sitting among the audience, wearing the yellow armor for decorum purposes, with Sabine wriggling in his lap. Tristan, versed in silence by the instruction of his mother, sat by with hands planted in his laps, and stared straight at the yet-to-be-reoccupied podium, where a Protector once stood, though the boy betrayed a few glances at his surroundings, glancing at all the other children in the crowd, as if Tristan was in search of a comrade. 

Count Wren watched intently as Ursa Wren appeared for her turn at the podium, ten sloped stories below.

All eyes will be on his wife, but he felt wary that eyes would be on him too, so he focused on stabilizing his hold on a squiqqly Sabine. That way, he'll be too distracted with one needed task to feel insecure of the Clans watching them, those colored uniforms, the gray and blue of the Protectors, the red of the Kasts, and the snowy white of Empire-aligned Commandos.

Chieftess Ursa Wren preached, “...We respect the choices of fellow Clans to pledge allegiance to the Empire, for that is their way of siding with strength, and we will continue our partnership with these Clans. But Clan Wren seeks to preserve another value of strength of Mandalore tradition, in the form of independence."

Ursa lifted her fist to her chest, a habit, a gesture of a pledge and commitment, a political choreography common in Wrens. Then she extended her hand to the booth where Gar Saxon, his Clan behind him, sat.

"...Our friend, Gar Saxon, believes sincerely that it would be for the benefit of all Clans, including us Wrens, to give our formal pledges to the Empire. While his idea has merit..."

Sabine was raising her arm toward Ursa and softly emitted, "Ma-mamama." That made him smile and miss a part of his wife's speech.

"... The fact that the choice remains open to us is highly appreciated, should we change our minds. We respect the rule of the Empire, for it aligns with the Mandalore way of power, but we are grateful that the Empire respects Clans that have opted to retain their own autonomy, so that another way of strength can survive and co-exist with the new world order.”

All the independent Clans in their colors and white Empire-aligned Clan members erupted into applause. Even some of the Protectors lent some applause.

There were another Clan chiefs, other independents, who stood at the podium, but none of their speeches ever matched the loud reception of Ursa's words. Victory in the political chamber.

Though after the assembly, everyone dispersed. Colorful clans and the white Empire-pledged clans chatting socializing among themselves. Tristan happily exploited this time to scurry around the adults and play tag with the Clan children.

As he was searching for Tristan among the masses of children and families, he spied Gar Saxon, from the distance, placing his hand on Ursa's shoulder, as they were brother-and-sister-in-arms. Their mouths moved, exchanging something muted among the mass socialization. She nodded.

Suddenly, Tristan accidentally bust into the scene, mid-chase, and then bumped right onto Saxon's leg. The man didn't look pestered, but he knelt down to Tristan's eye level and said a few words with the boy as Ursa looked down upon this scene with an impassive expression. And Tristan, seemingly absorbing some emboldenment from the Saxon's words, elicited a wide grin, as if Saxon was a familiar relative who had just fed him a praise.

* * *

**8 More Clans Pledge to the Empire at Summit**

He did not look back at the idle wreck of Sundari, where the chasms of chaos were seemingly refurnished.

"Mother, when can I see my friends again?"

"Another day. I believe you'll become their brother-in-arms, someday." Ursa told Tristan.

"Daddy, I wanna to stay with Uncle Castro," Sabine remarked as the dimensions faded from the view.

"Maybe we'll visit Uncle Castro another day." Her mother told her.

"You'll get to Sundari another way, Bean," he assured his little girl

The child, in mourning, batted her hand on the glass, reaching all the fading dimensions and shapes of Sundari, and she remained at the window staring at the night-shaded sphere of Mandalore, now a fading marble beyond her grasp.

His eyes found relief at the shapeless Krownest, where the depth was easier to follow and had no smoke nor dents.

_A blotch of a circle with squares within. It was incomprehensible, as to be expected from a developing artist, but he could tell that she intended none of the dents on Mandalore, although it is unaligned chaos, as it is a child's hand that has attempted order. Sabine Wren just called it, " **Sunny-dary.** "_


	22. The Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A succession of portraits about the maturation of the Counts and Countesses of Wren, a third child that never materialized, the education of the children, and Sabine's goodbye gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahead there is a momentary allusion to an abortion procedure.

_A blotch of four cold shapes, two large blobs, two smaller blobs. Her name for it was rudimentary_ **.**   _ **Family**_

* * *

 In the nursery, the young Wrens wrestled furiously beyond the appropriate parameters safely regulated play-fight. Sabine sported a black eye, and Tristan was streaked with bruises and bite-marks his hand.

He parted the two. “Hey, hey, why?”

“She says, she’ll lead.“

“I always beat him at chess.“

“Na-ah, I beat you a few times.“

The custom of succession varied from Clan to Clan. It was traditionally the firstborn, Tristan, who would be furnished for her throne. But in other Clans, a younger child, a nephew, and niece, could, based on competency and proven performance, claim the throne at a later age. 

“You’re both great, equally!" was his futile remedy that didn't appease them enough to cease their hollering.

Ursa proved the more competent peacemaker.

“You’ll both lead. You’ll lead differently.“

“But Tristan gets to be the leader! No fair!“

“I claimed it first when I was born! Bow to me!“

“Bow to me, Trist. I beat you at chess!“

Ursa went on,

"Did you know I fought with Sasha for the throne? Countess Sasha and I quarreled over the throne, as teenagers. We nearly threatened a duel until Mother intervened. We outgrew those petty skirmishes.“

"And you won! You were first. You beat Auntie Sasha." Tristan finished.

"No. It wasn't a matter of victory. Aunt Sasha did not lose. And I did not win."

“But you lead! You’re the best!“

"I was suited to lead. Sasha leads too."

"But she follows you. She's not the best."

“It’s true that I want you to attain the best status you can get. But you have to attain these statuses fairly. I may have been born for my throne but I had to earn that destiny. A leader, leads the followers, but the followers have their voice. One cannot exist without the other. The follower, follows, but the follower is not subservient. What is a leader who doesn’t know how to earn a follower’s respect? A follower also gives input for the leader. Followers criticize. The leader stands on higher ground. But at coronation, the followers bow to their new leader. That is the way of all Clans.” 

Then she cleared her throat, for the punctuation.

“But in Clan Wren, leaders bow to their followers, because a leader must give something in return for their loyalty. Our ancestral leaders bowed to their families. Tristan, when we held your newborn body up for all Wrens to bow, we knelt down with you in our arms, so you could kneel down too to the family."

"Sooooo, if Sabine is chief, I bow, but she bows too. If I'm chief, Sabine bows, but I bow at her too."

"Yes, that is a tradition exclusive to Clan Wren." A flick of pride formed upon her lips.

Bean injected, “What if the leader is bad, Mother? What if, I, the follower has to duel?”

Ursa paused.

“Sabine, then hope that the leader has a smidge of honor to accept the duel. And the righteous will win. Righteousness will win the day. The righteousness within a leader will win. The righteousness of a competent follower will win the day.“

“Was Pre Vizsla righteous? Did that make Maul right?" Sabine blurted.

Ursa continued.

“Just remember, Sabine, Tristan, Clan Wren has a trick that no other Clan has, we know when to get on our knees.“

* * *

_**Sabine and Tristan on the Throne.** Both siblings seated upon their mother's throne._

_**Gray, nuts and bolts.** She was drawing out the machines. Now with this child on his lap, following his motions, he felt blessed that he was a repairman, with his daughter as his apprentice._

_A gold owl standing isolated in the encompassing snow-white of the Empire colors, encircled by the tinges of independent clans and the outlines of the Empire-aligned Clans, nearly camouflaged in the white of the Empire's shroud with a spread of colors to represent the independent clans. The owl was surrounded while steadfast. **Summit: Clan Wren Thrives.** _

_A crude sketch in the shape of a plan, voiced by Ursa and him years ago. He, and she, tried not to think of names. For now._

_A gold owl standing isolated in the snow-white of the Empire colors, surrounded by the outlines of the Empire-aligned Clans, nearly camouflaged in the white of the Empire's shroud with only a few dollops of crimson to distinguish the Saxons. The owl was still steadfast. _ **Summit:**_ **Clan Wren Thrives II.**_

_**He came back to the bloodless sketch** of a shapeless form made in private, what he thought was only for him. He never checked if this one beat like a drum, that was known only to her. Upon the news and her automatic decision, he swallowed the counterpoint, an involuntary unclean disloyalty to Ursa's declaration, "I cannot have this one in this world," although he felt relief and agreement at her decision, embracing its regretlessness with its tinges of remorse. The sketch turned out to be a tangible portable shrine to what, or who, could have been, who could've been a Sasha, who could've been a Kai, who could've been a San, a veneration of what they both wanted before the Empire, as she lay down for the procedure underneath a medical droid sworn to secrecy. He tensed up when Ursa discovered the sketch in his drawers and then was relieved when she gave him no words, pressed its incompleteness to her forehead before returning it back in its place and embracing him. Neither the other Wrens, nor the elder Sasha, nor Sabine, nor Tristan, knew about the sketch now hidden beneath their mattress._

_**Three shooting stars.**  In the mute backdrop of Krownests were three shooting stars. One is purple._

_**A dollop of rainbowed circles** , no shapes, just splatters, a bigger version of her childhood paintings. "Just being an expressionist?" he asked her. "Just experimenting."  _

_**Countess Sabine Wren.** A girl in gold, dark hair, with streaks of purple and blue, betraying specks of purple and pink._

_**Bolts II.** A series of parts, on a blue backdrop, like solid objects on a blueprint. He was glad that he had participated in the design of the weapons, to lend Sabine that desired skills at her persistent request._

**_The Initiation of Count Tristan Wren_. ** _A boy in gold, surrounded by Wrens._

_**Krownest's Colors.** She had not bother with the impressionist piece, which was his technique before starting a post-impressionist piece. She went straight on full post-impressionist, coloring Krownest in a ultraviolet of hues._

_**Wrens.**  She dabbled in her own murals in her house, with Wrens of various colors, surrounding a gold nite owl._

_**Ursa Wren.** The updated piece of the Chieftan dissolved, over a background of Mandalorian colors and shocks of yellow. Did not forget the pinch of blush. _

_**** _

 

 ** _The Initiation of Countess Sabine Wren_. **   _Sabine_   _wore her newly-forged armor, one bursting with gold at its center, but fringed with various hues of pink, purple, blue that faded out on the borders of the gold._  

* * *

Their gold-haired Sabine finally had her first sparring  victory against her mother, who never coddled her by "going easy on kin." Her mother concluded the spar with a bow at her daughter.

“Good, Sabine.“ Satisfied, Sabine walked back to him, with pride, perhaps looking forward to painting with him.

But Ursa, breaching her vow of surrender, crept up behind an oblivious Sabine.

He knew the rules, but reflex compelled him to cry out, “Behind you, Bean!” but it was too late as Sabine turned back to see her mother shrove her to the ground.

To her face-down daughter, Ursa bellowed, “One more thing, never turn your back, Sabine! Keep your eye on your enemy. Your family won’t be there to compensate for your oversights.“ Ursa stood over Sabine.

He thought for a moment, he would run out there, that Sabine would be in tears and that he would have to hold her.

But Sabine rolled over, as if the physical pain had no effect, even with watery eyes from the pain, seemed to regard her mother, this Countess towering over her, with awe.

“Never turn my back. Yes, Mother. A Wren never turns their back." 

Ursa extended her hand. Sabine reached, though gave a moment's hesitation, as if expecting another impromptu test, expecting her mother to withdraw her aid, but Sabine made the reach, and Ursa grasped Sabine's hand to restore her daughter to her feet.

* * *

_An ajar door, revealing the scene of Chieftain-Countess Ursa with her young Count Tristan and Countess Sabine, engaged in Chieftain tutorials that no other Wren, not even him, was permitted to attend to. The Chieftain and her heirs were framed in a creak of light, but the majority of the portrait was black negative space, of the door, unoccupied. **T** **utorials.**_

_**Wrens.**  Gifts to her parents and brother, in a realistic portrait design that aligned with their taste._

_But for him, his likeness in a what was called a "comic" style, a new movement among Mandalorian artistic youth, on a backdrop of splatters of shapeless hues that would shock the eye with its depth-ness. **For Father.**_

_Her armor bursts with not just gold, but a rainbow of paint, an expression of liberation, the final portrait of the Countess Sabine before her departure from Krownest. She seems to dissolve in the backdrop of cubes and pattern. Her hair was blue that time. **Farewell Gift for Countess Sabine Wren's Flight.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Comments and dialogue about Mandalorian culture of Tristan and Sabine's probable childhood under the umbrella of nobility welcomed._
> 
> _So the portrait of Ursa here is property of Lucasfilm and appeared in "Legacy of Mandalore."_
> 
> _Though I sent out a call on Tumblr for fanartist contributions to possibly feature here, though none was offered._
> 
> _There are four more chapters left before this fanfiction concludes. The fanfic will be updated every Thurs/Fri until the near-air-date of "Heroes of Mandalore" SWR Season 4 premiere._


	23. Before the Countess's Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countess Sabine Wren takes her first flight from Krownest.

**Young Countess of Independent Clan Wren To Be Received at Imperial Academy.**

The headline was small.

“She has made a choice we can't stand against. She truly believes this could be her path to warrior-hood, and, although I hope that day won't come, a contingent Chieftess should something happen to me or Tristan."

"She could be a warrior at home."

“I do not argue against that. Though Tristan will have the education within the Wren household if he destined for the throne. Sabine will have a different, but still valuable education, and she has a shot of gaining status within the Empire, bringing favor for the Wrens. She contributes her talents to the Empire, the Empire will be assured that we do not stand against them. The other independent Clans don't read much into it... but Saxon...” She eyed the holo-Net screen. "The Saxons even send their congratulations for Sabine's enrollment. Sly of them, they had access to the private records and chose to make it public. The headlines doesn't say it, but they're saying that it's our way of allying with the Empire."

“The Empire has never acted against us.“

“Not yet. But alliance could be possible without succumbing to them. Perhaps this is the ideal co-existence. Sabine isn’t the only Clan child to be installed there. She’ll be interacting, collaborating with other Clan children, which is needed. When she graduates, she can return home and apply all that knowledge for Wren’s benefit.“

“Ursa, what if she ends up liking it?“

“Then we can’t go against her decision. We stand with her.“

* * *

_A mural, a caricature-styling of her, Tristan, Ursa, and him. Ursa had the most minuscule smile, a light countpoint to her stoicism on the mosaic in the main chamber. Sabine's modernist-comic style had really grown on him._

“If you want to stay, I’ll try to convince your mother.“

“Father, thanks. I’ll visit when I can, but they're quite strict with visitations…but I… I want to leave actually. You don't know how much Mother and I talked this over, trying to figure everything out, what to watch out for. I really, really wanted this." 

“You find your ancestral home on Krownest dull?“

She smiled. “I want something different. Don’t tell Mother.”

“No, I thought this place was dull too when I came here. Not much good impressions can come out of its winters. But I stayed for the family.”

“I want to stay for the family too.” She stared up at the mural. "Yet I would actually go further than Sundari, beyond Mandalore, if I could."

"What's stopping you?"

"Family."

"We'll stand by you, if you want to fly further."

"I mean, that's why I'm going to the Academy. It's prestigious. I'll learn how to build better weapons for our Clan. But best of all, I'll go somewhere, but stay close to you."

He gazed at the little girl smiling in the mural. “Whenever you’re missing us, find a space to draw your family, Bean. And then you’ll know that we’ll always looking back and smiling at you.”

“Even Mother?“

“Yes, I know she doesn’t always show it, but yes, Mother is proud of you. You're already a warrior to her. Why else would you draw her as proud of you?“

* * *

 And suddenly, it was sunset on Krownest and he was sharing a hug with Sabine.

Suddenly, all the relatives, placed their hands on Sabine's shoulders, chanting a Mand'o prayer of good fortune.

Suddenly, Tristan placed his hand on his sister's shoulder, chanting a Mando's prayer, before remarking, "Go get em'."

Suddenly, Ursa was on the snow, telling a gold-clad Sabine, “Chin up. Remember everything I tutored you in. As a Countess, you are setting an example for Clan Wren. I trust that you’ll represent the best example of Clan Wren. Remember our tutorials, you are an ambassador for us.”

“Yes, Mother.” And Sabine turned toward the ship, walked toward the doorway, but then she stopped. She refaced her mother. She had forgotten something.

The mother and daughter stood, a chasm of snows and footprints between them. Then Sabine's foot went forward, toward her mother, but retreated. He had to remind himself that this reluctance wasn't out of grudge or fear of her mother, but out of her desire to be her best. He hoped that Sabine, knowing her, would breach her trepidation and run to her mother's arms, just so his daughter could bring with her to the Academy the relief of her maternal touch. But Ursa hailed from a much different world that even he struggled to understand and Sabine was reared into her mother's world of nobility under her private tutorials, with all its unknowns.

An embrace, maudlin as it could appear in some warriors' eyes, wouldn't be out of decorum for Countesses. But instead, Sabine opted to descend to her knees, to the Countess that birthed her. And the Chieftess mirrored her daughter. For a long time, their knees were on the snow, and they they rose at the same time. Although Sabine did not bridge the gap by embracing her mother, he could tell by Ursa's lips that she was pleased that Sabine's maximized traditional propriety, for no better farewell, even embraceless, between Countesses could've transpired.

And then his little expressionist, her mother's contingent chieftess, was stepping into the shroud of the ship.

“Dad, what if I run out of color?” 

He wasn't sure if she caught his promise in time when she vanished behind the closing door, "I’ll send you more colors then."


	24. Desertion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countess Sabine Wren did not cease to exist. She was just reduced to a stain of memory among Clan Wren.

From the holos, 

"My hair's pink now, Father. It's Mother's least favorite color."

"Made any friends?"

"Yeah, a few. Also one. We're bunk mates."

"Did you get the the paints I sent you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Did the colors I sent suit you?"

"Yeah, just not the Empire. They won't let me do murals on my walls."

* * *

Castro Wren and his family rested in bacta-tanks.

The Empire had taken emergency actions against "insurgents" on Mandalore.

But they were not insurgents. They were peaceful protestors. 

There were no transmissions from Sabine.

* * *

_The indents of someone's boot soles were among the snow. **Krownest footprints-**_

He recognized his son by the blur of gold heading toward him. 

Tristan removed his helmet to reveal remorse.

"Father, you are needed for the briefing."

And he left behind the mid-finished  _ **Krownest footprints**_ in the snow.

* * *

Ursa sat above, on her throne. Tristan stood below, a step down from where his mother, his Chieftain sat.

Count stood below his wife and son, with the other Wrens. Although he wore no armor, it seemed that he was a fighter among them.

All had their eyes and visors on the ghost of Sabine Wren on the holo.

His little girl was absolutely drained.

“…We, I, were instructed to build a weapon, a massive weapon… It was a thesis, perhaps a competition too. I could’ve called it quits. But as you said. I had talents. I wanted to use it. I didn’t think how they wanted to use it. I let it all happen. They gave me reports on its effects, like they were handing me trophies."

The artist clenched his teeth.

"They showed us the collateral. As if the impact was a sign of our progress. The civilian destruction seemed like bonus points to them, extra credit."

Sabine's ghost popped out and a weapon was shown.

“That unrest on Mandalore. I knew there were family there, going about business, I know some of the independent clans were among the peaceful protests… The Empire used the weapons to…“ she broke off. "The Empire shot at the surface, shot at people that didn't even fit their criteria of crime."

He thought he felt his tongue bleed beneath his teeth.

“...a friend and I broke out. Not before we sabotaged the weapon. I know, Empire property, it’s a serious crime, an insult to the ruling Clan Saxon. But I figured if they made my hands build it, I had ownership of what I built. I did it in the name of the classmates too... They can't even let the Empire know how remorseful they felt.“

The image of the weapon popped up.

“This is what they made me, us, built."

He could see Countess Anna, putting her hand to her forehead.

And then Sabine's ghost returned to kneel down, bow down to the Wrens and the shape of her mother, who was still staring down from her throne.

“Mother, you’ve told me that what’s right comes first. If you can collect me and my friend as this secret location..." The coordinates of some place popped up above Sabine's forehead. "I can offer my inside knowledge of the Empire and we'll take them down, perhaps with the help of our allied Clans... Long live, Clan Wren. Long live, Mandalore."

End. Sabine Wren's ghost burst out of existence.

Nothing. Only the sounds of breathing and clanking armor.

Countess Sasha broke the silence by muttering, “All Clans have their eyes on us now."

Tristan Wren's input was, "What do we do next?"

He noted that Ursa raised her brows at Tristan for she preferred that Tristan had an answer rather than a question. Successors to the throne should learn to give answers rather than questions. Let the others ask the questions.

Then Ursa gave him a sorrowful look. 

“Sasha, you know what to do.“

He watched as Sasha, the woman who taught Sabine over fifty variations of combat, slammed her hand on a button and purged all the messages, the coordinates of Sabine's location. 

“Ursa.“ He was cutting through the decorum. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Tristan took a momentary step forward but then recoiled back to position.

But Ursa continued, "I won't be surprised if Saxon already have intercepted them. Everyone. Prepare for a trip to Sundari. The young Wrens will ask about Sabine, tell them she is no longer part of us.“ All the present Wrens nod, exchanging uncertain glances, but professional in their compliance. 

And then, the chill.

"If by any chance, Sabine is sighted trying to enter Krownest, fire warning shots."

And then a Wren muttered, "Countess-"

"My orders. We will depart for Sundari in an hour.“ 

Then she peered down at her frozen husband.

“And you will come with us."

All the Wrens left the three alone. They had not moved from position. Chieftess Ursa Wren remained above on her throne. Chieftain-apparent Tristan was slightly below. Count Wren was the lowest.

“Trist. Leave me and your mother.“

But Tristan did not exit. In a strange dignified childish gesture, Ursa's successor descended halfway down the stairs, between ground and throne, and then placed on his helmet, as if that would render him invisible, a discernible eavesdropper. 

The moment his son's impassive expression vanished beneath the helmet, he forgot that Tristan was still a boy, only bordering near the age of man. He saw a child with the dignity of a noble man, the ideal Chieftain his mother privately tutored him to be. Whatever his mother and father had to say, whatever debate would transpire between them, this Count knew that he outranked his father and refused to depart. He will hear what will transpire between his mother and mother. 

It was not just a boy demanding to stay in the room and be a part of his Chieftess's affair, but it was a young Count insisting, in his own choreography, _I'm sorry, father, but I outrank you and what you will say to Mother, the Chieftain, is my business._

He’ll have to continue with his son within close earshot. 

“Ursa, we owe Sabine an answer. Sabine can’t just come to us. We have to come to her... and her friend."

“It was only a matter of time… but like this… Sabine, brought the inevitable faster upon us. This is our responsibility.“

“Yes. we have to get Sabine. Get her as soon as possible.“

“No, our responsibility is to the Empire. What Sabine did was an insult to both Empire... and us, and the other Clans. And Sabine is a Countess, our Countess. And they know that I, we, were the teachers of Sabine Wren. Do you realize how Sabine's crimes reflect upon all of  _us_?”

“Us?“

“This is not just about Sabine. We’re talking about the Clan, our Clan, and then what the other Clans would think?“

He swallowed. “She’s a child. This loyalty game the Empire played on us and our little girl has been corrupted from the start. And now you’re punishing her for resisting all those atrocities the Academy made her do, Ursa. We have to stand with her struggles. For the independent Clans.“

“We cannot stand by her.“

“Ursa, she’s a child.“

“She may be a child, but she's smart enough to know what she was doing, to know that her weapons were at the Empire's whims. That they were authorized to shoot at Mandalorians, including family."

"Is this about Castro and his family? And our friends? Because..." Now he took a deep breath. "I'm not happy with what the weapons did either..." He remembered his calloused palms handing Sabine's scarless hand a wrench to tighten the nuts and bolts of a preliminary weapon... "But we know Sabine. She wouldn't have built those weapons if she knew what they would do."

The brows of his wife rose. "Far from it. It's her attempt at atoning for it, making a show of her atonement before the Empire, then trying to have us do the rest of the atoning for her."

“Whether or not she was a child or a woman, whatever the Empire made her do, she had to survive. And she needs our help. Whatever sins Sabine has done, it was done under pressure."

“Her intents do not matter. Look what her survival had done to her Clan. She's condemned us by reaching for us! The Clans of the Empire will have their triggers on us. And the independent Clans now consider us too toxic for any collaboration with us. No allies. We're ruined."

“Are you saying we're too ruined to save Sabine?"

"She's too ruined to be saved."

"Ursa!"

"You heard what she admitted there. She admitted to volunteering with the design of the weapons. And then couldn't face what she did before Mandalore, so she ran. She willingly incriminated herself, spoke out without decorum, confessed without decorum to the world."

"Decorum? Is this about decorum? This is not a political room! She couldn't possibly play polite!"

"To Mandalore, it is an insult! They can roll out a mix of headlines and rumors, twist all speculations of her motives, and all will be true to the eyes of Mandalore. And there are already headlines of a rebellious cadet corrupting other cadets. There're even reports of a witch hunt going among cadets over who could've been Sabine's accomplices. She endangered other Clan children. And then she dragged us in."

"Dragged us in, the trouble that the Empire caused? She needed our help. She got dragged in."

"She made the decision that condemned us."

"She destroyed the weapons. Stood up for us, for Mandalore. Did you expect her to think of something else?"

"And now she's insulted the Empire she pledged to." Everything was murky. If Sabine only enrolled for education, did she really pledge to the Empire?

"She wanted to make things right."

“If Sabine were wiser, she wouldn’t have resisted. She wouldn't have incriminated herself."

“They made, tricked, Sabine into providing the triggers. She didn't understand. You know she worships this family. She gets on her knees for us. Who are you to judge her story?”

When Ursa took a deep breath, ready to slam down her cards.

“Do you want Tristan executed?”

He could see the mild shift of his son’s helmet.

“If we don't do damage control, we're all put on trial. Not just I, but Tristan. Would you rather go after our daughter? Or would you rather risk the execution of our son and the rest of our Clan?“

"But Sabine..."

“You have to understand, Sabine comes back, we are all targets. We go after her, you're a target. Tristan, a target. Clan Wren extinguished. We’ll rather survive through the disgrace.“

“Disgrace? You're blaming Sabine for this?” 

“You'll understand these affairs, if you were a leader of this Clan. And Sabine, as a potential leader, should've understand the consequences. Clan Wren understands.”

It spilled out, "I am their Count!" 

"That does not override me."

“I am Sabine’s father."

He saw how she bit her lips. "I _wish_ that were relevant."

Something ruptured. _"I am a Wren._ "

"Yes, you are. And you have duty for our Clan." Her finger gripped the edge of her throne.

"Then if it isn't just about our little girl, this is our entire Clan we're talking about. I'm no leader, I'm no warrior. But even if I was still that meager servant-level live-in historian, I have a voice in this Clan, for the Clan!"

Ursa's lip bled under her tongue. She looked down upon him with that familiar glint, one he could not tell if pitiful or irritated.

"You _do_ have a voice here. Always." Now her voice rung with tragedy. "But your input does not suit this situation."

Then she stood up. But even as the chill ran down his spine, he knew those eyes too well to feel intimidated by her glare.

“Ursa, we all need time to think this over.“

“Time is luxury. Use it to prepare for Sundari. I will debrief you on your motions. And when you'll look into the eyes of the Empire, you will understand why we're doing this. You will rehearse your pledge in the ship.“

"Ursa. The Empire has hurt our daughter."

_"Chieftain's orders."_

"Ursa, the Empire has hurt us."

She stood up to deliver the lightning. _"Count Wren, I give you my orders as Chief of Clan Wren."_

He reflexively threw a glance at Tristan, mis-processing that she referred to their son before remembering that he too had the title. That pierced him. Everything tightened, the bitterness boiled in his stomach. 

He stared at the younger Count Wren, his son, the Chief-to-be, frozen on the stairs, his visorless eyes, steely and pleading, _Father, do what Mother says. This is your mission too._

 


	25. Clan Wren Sinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count Wren ultimately obeyed these impossible orders of his Countess

“You will kneel to Governor Saxon and pledge to the Empire. We cannot have another embargo. We won't reach a point where the Wren children will survive on rations.“

* * *

 “All the Clans are suspicious of you. Wrens residing on Sundari forced to exile themselves to Krownest. You're blessed that you have a homeplanet to seek refugee in. Don't underestimate this privilege."

Saxon removed his helmet.

“And I want you to know that I offer condolences. Not just for the loss of your Countess, but for your family still in recovery, especially Sir Castro Wren, he was my friend.” To punctuate this, he placed his hand on Tristan’s shoulder, brother-to-brother. “Unlike the other Clans, Clan Saxon does still believe in you.“ Seeing Gar Saxon treat Tristan like he was his own, was a testament to the man’s guile.

“But the fact remains, with the chaos that the young Countess has left in her wake, who will compensate for her mess?“

It was Ursa’s turn.

“We are aware that one of our blood, our own, has flown. We have not engaged with her actions. She will never be welcomed back into her Clan. We will not let her actions corrupt us. But as she is our blood, she is our stain. We are no longer civilians, but we will all be your soldiers and your servants to compensate for the daughter’s betrayal of the Empire. We cannot undo the stain, but we can stop the bleeding.“

And she sunk for Gar Saxon.

Like a mother making an offering to a deity’s order, she laid a hand on her son, a cue for her successor to move forward.

Tristan mumbled, “I…“ then the boy cleared his throat. “As the future Chieftain of Clan Wren, I serve Mandalore and the Empire. I will lead my Clan to the direction of the Empire.“

Tristan Wren sunk.

And then it was his turn. Count Wren, father of the lost Countess, could not be excluded from this show. He averted Saxon’s eyes, which he knew was hazardous, but he watched the back of his son. He tried to shut out the little Clan-less girl, the baby tumbling on her feet, the girl showing off her masterpieces, the Clan-less girl somewhere lost in space, running through some fuzzy landscape, the little girl standing on one spot in the snow, because, as she lamented, "I don't want my feet to go away," referring how her footprints would never last long on Krownest. 

He focused on his son on his knees and imagined the guns pointed at Tristan. And then he was ready to look at Saxon in the eyes.

“I, husband of Chieftess Ursa Wren, am your servant. I pledge to the Empire and will raise my Clan into this allegiance.“

Count Wren sunk.

He could discern the curl of a disdainful amusement at Saxon’s lips. He could only hope that Saxon hadn’t read too much into his hesitation.

The rest of Clan Wren sunk.

“The entirety of Mandalore will come to forgive you.“

It was when he rose from the floor did he note the lit holo-pad, on-air for all of Mandalore to hear. For the Holo-Nets. 

_Forgive me, Bean._

* * *

On the nightly morning of his daughter's birthday, he crept out of bed to pay a visit to her old room.

And found nothing of her. All remnants that she existed had been cleansed. Even the wall mural of her family was now a dull interior. No more smiling Ursa Wren.

The banish and dishonored are not allowed the grace of a  _Momento._  No immortality for her.

He felt the footsteps behind him.

In a whisper, even if there were no fear of eavesdroppers around, even if they were alone, her breath close to the skin of his ear, she whispered, 

 _“Her best chance is to fly farther. From us.“_ She enunciated the us, as if letting self-condemnation settle in.

But even with the condemnation settled in within Ursa, something swelled upon him, a tumor of grudge. She intended solace, and perhaps earlier timing would have been a little less callous. But all that came out was the vile, this stale comfort, these words she never bothered to speak off before they were dragged to the capitol.

_“If I’ve known then, no, I knew then, I understood enough that I was marrying the politics… I should have hesitated a moment more before kneeling down with you.“  
_

Her footsteps faded and then his wife became a ghost like their daughter. And he knew that this _us_ , had also condemned him.

* * *

 He dashed out into the snow, the air seeping through his nightclothes. He was distraught over his resilience against the cold, which he needed to swallow him as soon as possible.

No one went after him, no one would know. At first, he fancied that he was searching for one of their ships to steal, to join his daughter into the nowhere, into what she had assumed to be escape from the dullness of Krownest. But he dashed past the shipyard. Even so, he was no pilot. Unlike the lost girl, he had no education on flight.

He ran far, stumbled over an abandoned canvas from a piece that he lost all passion for. The snow was merciless, leaving no trail of footprints so he could return home. Let the snow do its work and bury him and shut out the noise. Let them plant an inscription. They're probably just bother to scatter his ashes.

By some miracle, he walked back to the dark of the household, for he knew he wouldn't withstand this cold. No Wren awoke to his sound.

His thought his old quarters would be empty, only for his boots to smash into wads of paper. He left a mess there. Back then, his mess was the same every day, melded with his present. But now it had flourished into a decaying garbage heap. He saw himself in the mirror and shook off the frost and scratched at his hair to remove the streak of the whiteness, until he remembered that was not frost, but his aging hair. The landscape had seeded itself in him, in the silver of his hair. He dived into his old dusty bed and defrosted there, on this mattress designed for one person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated.
> 
> The fanfiction is set to conclude by Oct 15, when Star Wars Rebels will debut season 4.


	26. Count Wren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count Wren exiles himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that, the next chapter will be the finale.

It was said that Count Wren vanished into exile, in the quarters of a servant.

Only the younger Count Wren visited the elder Count Wren.

Tristan, clad in his white commando outfit, delivered meals to the missing Count. He kept the man fed. He would feed news about the welfare of Castro Wren and his family. He would try to persuade him to go see Castro, for he had moved into Krownest permanently. Tristan would also tell about how he elevated himself up the ranks under the tutelage of another man.

One day, while leaving him a tray of grits, Tristan fed him a dessert of a faux-comfort. “I am becoming one of Saxon’s favorites now. If I keep this up with the Supercommandos and the Governor, I’ll earn... _her_ a pardon.“

“Trist, promise me you won’t say that in front of your mother.“

Tristan was his greatest visitor. Nice that his son was man enough to find work, and boy enough to hope. He could not find it in him to reprimand this hope.

* * *

Even when Count Wren restored his presence around the household and wandered the Krownest snow, he was a ghost rather than the servant who married the Chieftess. 

It took a few months for the Wrens to re-acquire the net-gain of their profits as it took a few months for Count Wren to emerge from hiding. 

Depending on which Wren you would ask, Count Wren had resigned to his obligations as if it were death. Or he truly missed his duties, desired to return to his pathological desire to be a contributor. He helped assemble and furnish their weapons and mumbled, "You welcome." Any reception he received from the Wrens was met with mixed reception, from apathetic frowns to pitiful glances. He would pass a nod at the more sympathetic Wrens, Castro, Anna, sometimes Sasha, and others, but then he would go about his way, sometimes wandering outside, with his head toward the sky.

* * *

 Where did the time go? When did his boy become a man?

Count Wren hesitated at the foot of the stairs, forgetting that he was allowed to maneuver up without the beckon of the one who occupied the throne. He inevitably could not avoid being in proximity to the woman he married. With practiced dignity, he focused on embracing his seated son, never breathing a greeting to the Chieftess next to the boy, no, the young man.

"I'm proud of you, Chief. Happy ceremony." He whispered to his son.

Then Count Wren stepped down from the stairs and accepted his place below his son and wife again. 

He looked up to the boy he held in his arms. This child would inherit his mother's choices, but would he imitate his mother's choices? What Chief will his boy be? How much of his mother will he take with him? How much of his mother would he cast off? He chided himself, for not having enough faith in his son's abilities in leadership. 

He bothered to watch his son received a hand-to-shoulder congrats from Gar Saxon, as if he had claimed Tristan as his offspring. 

It was said that every morning Ursa Wren, as Clan Wren leaders did, would pluck off the strands of her white hair to prolong her youthfulness. With his whitening hair, Count Wren wore his age. He was a ghost, a foggy canvas, for many years.

But if you asked Count Wren, he felt like the sole breathing thing, surrounded by spirits of his family.

* * *

It was yet another birthday of hers. He dared to enter her empty room. He was afraid of forgetting.

He found not Sabine, but a woman, on her knees, staring at the mural-less walls. His automatic thought was to retreat back to his quarters. Yet, he stayed, awaiting something from her.

"I had a nightmare."

He did not move toward his wife.

"...Our child has forgiven me. Why does she forgive me?" When she turned, she had her trembling arms positioned to hold an infant, like how she cradled Tristan and Sabine.

He let himself answer her by rejoining her at her side and taking her in his arms. They slept on a floor cleansed of its paint stains. Other than that, he never rejoined the marriage bed. Ursa Wren would not wake up to his touch. 

* * *

 The Saxons rained from the sky. That was another occasion where he felt he had to emerge from hiding, perhaps because he still had to play his part in keeping the appearance of stability. He stood at the Chieftess's side and bowed in synchronization to the Saxons.

Governor Gar Saxon stepped forward and removed his helmet. “How is the young Count Tristan Wren?“

“He's training with his Commandos elsewhere on Krownest." The mother reported. "Shaping up the battalion for you."

"That's good to hear. He has become an exceptional leader."

Then Saxon cleared his throat.

“Spit it out, Saxon.”

“This news will devastate you.“

“Give us the news.“

“There has been sightings of your banished ex-Countess."

The artist gulped down the reflex of relief. 

“No confirmation, but consistent rumors indicate that she has been employed by the Rebellion."

Sabine had endured to exist out there. Clanless, but out there. He imagined her, now the size of womanhood.

“She’s a serious enemy of the Empire. She has joined insurgents."

There had been rumors, warnings from the Empire not to make dealing with them, but there were rebels. Sabine living was a consolation. But the idea of her with rebels… He (he wishfully suspected Ursa did too) felt enough resentment toward the Empire to feel satisfied that people were firing back, but he could not really come to celebrate rebels either. They were mere inconveniences to the Empire, a powerless bunch, if not troublemakers. And rebels weren’t Mandalorians, so Sabine was Clan-less still, with no father to embrace her and encourage her colors and no mother to oversee her growth.

"But why are you here, Saxon?" Ursa continued. "Surely, you came not just to give us spoiled news. If you're trying to provoke something out of us, it won't work. This ex-Countess you speak of isn't family here."

A chill trickled down his spine. He noted how deeply she swallowed after her declaration.

But that was not the end of it.

"We're here for the Count Wren." Saxon replied.

"As we said, Tristan is not here. He's out. Whatever business you have with him, we'll notify him."

"I meant, the _older_ Count Wren." Then Saxon gestured toward him. He wished the snow would swallow him.

“We’re relocating this Count Wren."

The fury built up in her voice. "Governor, what are you accusing my husband of?"

“There is no accusation, only an act of caution. I’ve known you, Ursa, for years, fought alongside you. We are colleagues. But your husband was not a House Vizsla member prior to your marriage. So it would be proper to have him examined for corruption. I cannot overrule my council's decision. Had you married within her own House, that would’ve spared you the inconvenience.“

And suddenly, for whatever reason, he felt the blow of Quen Vizsla's armor all over again when they collided that day. He should've flown away before he became the historian, to spare the children. Why did he mourn for Quen? Did he mourn a substitute future where Tristan and Sabine were spared?

Ursa’s brows furrowed in deep offense. “We served you for years, Saxon. None of the former young ex-Countess’s corruption has spread to any of the Wrens. And it is an insult to assume my husband isn’t loyal when he pledged to you.“ He could see the tremor of her lips and her hand taping at her blaster holster, audibly for them to hear.

So Count Wren stepped forward. "Am I not a Wren? Did I not help design the weapons that helped your Clone Wars cause? I pledged to my Clan."

He raised his fist to his chest, mirroring his wife's rhetoric habits. 

"And when I pledged to Clan Wren, I pledged to House Vizsla. I raised my... warrior Tristan the best I could. I raised Tristan to be loyal. I am loyal to Mandalore."

This was out of the blue, but it felt instinctive in this improvised script: "I am a true Vizsla." He felt like an imbecile for dropping this one, as if he was of Clan Vizsla, rather than the House.

Saxon's head took a dip of begrudging--if not mocking--respect for the audacious rhetoric. 

“I am not pleased to do this. I don’t doubt it. You raised a loyal son. On the other hand, the consensus of my council and concerns of other Clans overrules me. And I must respect their caution." He saw the twitch of a smirk on Saxon. "With word of your daughter's escalating treachery, other Clans will spread rumors about your credibility. Count Wren goes willingly, the other Clans will believe in your loyalty. It’s not your fault that the elder Count will have to join us for extensive questioning. I do hate to do this to the younger Count Wren.“

And the elder Count Wren hated that he would do this to his son. But the husband of Ursa Wren held his arms out, welcoming the handcuffs.

“What are you doing?” Ursa protested.

“Obeying the Empire." _Being a good Wren._

Saxon laughed and even slapped his outstretched wrists down. “This is not an arrest. It’s just a formal questioning. You will be away from your family. But there's guarantee you'll make a homecoming.“

_Home?_

“I see no right to do this.“ Ursa started. "Saxon, you are a colleague of mine. We are friends. You are a brother-in-arms. But you have tempted me into invoking a duel."

"Countess, I empathize with that desire, but the laws now prevent me from participating in this." Yet, he sounded flattered.

The artist stepped toward Saxon, but then the grip of Ursa landed on his wrist.

“Ursa, _let me go."_

“I see, a little marital trouble.” Saxon’s brow lifted with curiosity and amusement. “I’ll give you a few minutes to make amends.“ 

This was further confirmation that his departure would not be temporary. He knew what Ursa had said of Gar Saxon, an honorable Clone War veteran with the humanity to give prisoners time for final prayers and amends, even riskily grouping prisoners with their families and friends before execution so they could say goodbyes, something that was even disliked by the late Pre Vizsla, who never believed in giving the enemy a breath more.

And now, she had him by the shoulders, stepping back into the distance out of earshot, the flicker in her eyes shattered like a broken mosaic, like when she stood by her mother’s urn on the throne. 

And then,

“We’ll get you back.“

“Don’t. Move on with your lives.  _Let me go_.”

Ursa’s face turned red, a darker shade than the blush of her portrait, that life-sized rendition hanging over her throne, which reminded him that he had gotten lost in a screwed-up tragedy that fooled him long enough to believe he was in a romance, one with a happy ending that expired like a snowdrop, and now he was in a tragedy, a cautionary tale, and his children had paid for their mother’s sins-–and his, for he went along, voluntarily, with the script of fate in the form of his wedding vows. 

Then Ursa muttered his name.

_Mhi solus tome..._

He forgave her.

_Mhi solus dar'tome..._

He had not forgiven her. She was the one who so erased their daughter’s colors.

_Mhi me'dinui an..._

And then he forgave her, for he held her on the stainless floor of their daughter's room.

_Mhi solus tome..._

And he did not forgive her, for even in their embrace, it did not undo her attempts to erase their girl.

_Mhi solus dar'tome..._

Then he forgave her, that she wanted to save the rest of her Clan, their son. 

_Mhi ba'juri verde..._

And then he didn’t forgive her, for she preached righteousness, but couldn’t enforce justice when her daughter invoked her righteousness. Were they truly warriors if they couldn't stand for one of their children?

"I can't let you go,..."

And then he wanted to hold Ursa, like he did when they placed her presumed ashes on her throne. He had not forgiven her, for even if she held to justice in heart, she never practiced it in the privacy of home.

His lips moved, _Let me go, just as you let Sabine go._

Her fingers relaxed on his shoulders. It looked for a moment that she would break away, though he was mildly astonished that she chose to lean close, and he allowed her to do it. He tasted ice in her breath.

This was her mistake. Saxon's footsteps approached, assuming that the marital bridge had been mended.

And then the weight of Saxon’s hand fell on his shoulder. If he had any power, he would break from the Empire's grip and make a dash into the sheets of their bed, forgiveness or not, become entangled and fall asleep with her into the embers of the eons and collapse back into their first wedding night, and feel the bump of the sketch of their aborted third child beneath the marriage bed. He even missed the taste of war soot, a bizarre withdrawal which he was guilty of.

“Tell our boy, my goodbyes." She was shrinking from the distance. Even Tristan, though present elsewhere and training for the Empire's army, seemed to be as absent as Sabine. His son was a ghost.

He tried to flash Ursa a wink, _I’ll be fine_ , though it perhaps came off as a feeble squint, for he hadn’t winked at her for a long time. She gritted her teeth as there appeared to be a shine beneath her eye.

 _Find Sabine, somehow,_ but the words were swallowed, perhaps because the lingering ice in his lips or there was danger in vocally mourning the corrupted within the Saxons’ earshot.

He saw the others, Sasha, Anna, the rest, staring at him through their visors. Anna removed her helmet, and despite the flexibility of her expression, not unlike her wife, she had skillful restraint, but even through restraint, he could see the grief.

He looked to Ursa again. But by that time, she had restored her helmet over her and there was nothing readable. 

They gave a gentle wack on his head so he could face forward and he could not look at Ursa in the eyes. But he dared to resist for a glance back. And his head was smacked once more toward the black of the carrier cell.

Krownest, its queen, its humble-sized kingdom, its court... it's fading, sinking, drained of the enchantment he discovered when he first colored the shooting star. But in one moment, a glow, as the abyss closed in around him.


	27. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count Wren comes to terms with his ascension--or his eventual descension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It ends here. Thank you for following and reading. Feel free to drop comments.
> 
> I am also proud to announce that I consider this fanfiction as the first draft of an independent novella/novel. My own challenge is researching into the Asian history that inspired/mirrored the Mandalorian culture. What I'm deciding now is if that story will be science-fiction, magic realism, fantasy, historical fiction, or a little of all elements combined. Feel free to offer input or counseling on literary sources of research.
> 
> With the horizon of SWR season 4 finale along the way, separate spiritual follow-ups or bonus chapters (under the title "Extended Epilogue") could be a strong possibility. But this is where it ends. 
> 
> Bonus chapters could be omitted and this is still the overarching closure of the tragedy of "The Historian of Clan Wren."

_Whenever you’re missing us, find a space to draw your family, Bean._

_Even if there are no colors to work with._

He stared at the ceiling, hoping to wake up to her touch the next morning, hoping the smell of another tray of grits brought by his son, hoping that the little girl would tickle him with a paintbrush to beg him for an early painting session.

But every morning was a few stretches, to de-stiffen his joints, a jog in place, to keep his heart active, and his finger tracing the wall, to pretend he was capable of making shapes.

There also was a tedious mental script formulated for certain days. _Yes, yes, I'm loyal to House Vizsla, yes, you can consider me a Vizsla, no, nothing in my actions indicated I corrupted Sabine, nothing in my wife's actions indicated she corrupted Sabine, no, nothing in my son Tristan that indicates any corruption, no, nothing in my sister-in-laws that indicate corruption, nothing in my in-laws that indicate corruption..._

* * *

He dreaded that he'd be forbidden from holo-contacts, though to his relief, this was allowed. However, it was all auditory transmission with a Saxon standing in the room. He no longer saw the shape of his family.

Ursa's commanding voice spoke of the family, updates about trade, vaguely enough.

"All is well as it can be at home..."

Tristen's voice fed him positive news of accelerating through Saxon ranks, how he guided the cousins to Saxon's favors.

"Saxon is delaying on it, but I'll persuade the Saxon court to pardon you, Father." 

Let the man keep hoping.

Once, he palmed a fork into his sleeve after a meal. Some limited warrior research in the Achieve told him that the utensils could make viable key and weapon when formed into the right shape. He did go through the movements. But it was all useless. If he ran out, he would be shot. Wren would be shot. It would make Clan Wren look guilty. Clan Wren would have less to live for. What a horrific disadvantage of Clan culture, where the actions of one could condemn an entire family, even if said actions were noble. The Headline,  **Count of Wren dishonors Saxon**.

He slipped the fork, his tool, into the pocket of his blanket. 

* * *

 Today, was the usual. Another Saxon standing guard. And a holo-message.

When Ursa talked, she spoke of Tristan, the boy in Saxon's military. She spoke of trade sometimes, not revealing the exacts and locations, but dropping "it goes well" or "Gar Saxon has been aiding us. He paid us a visit over trade matters."

Then...

"Tristan is growing. I cannot believe he is no longer a child... I know I haven't been the best mother."

It was not unusual for Ursa to voice such doubts in her maternal abilities in her bedroom. But what was unusual were the deliberated pauses, the committed ellipses. When Ursa paused during a conversation, like that night she bared the tale of Sabine's birth on Carlac, they were relayed in mind-rushing spontaneity. But it almost seemed scripted for her to pause as she berated herself on her maternal competency.

"Our child has turned out fine... Despite all my flaws as a mother..."

Perhaps she was telling him, Tristan begrudged her, which bore its own truth. Tristan was a boy deferent to her orders, but he often swallowed his disagreements ("Our boy has to learn to speak more openly. Otherwise, what feedback is he holding back from us?" Ursa once told him in bed).

He could imagine her grimace of self-reprimanding. He didn't want to imagine this discomfort. So he said, "You've done your best with him."

Then, " _Our child_..." It was like she wanted to correct him or show that she was still his Chieftess and he was unallowed to assume her answers.

She cleared her throat... _"Our child..."_ Then she emitted a cough. Staged. Rehearsed, he suspected.

The pause was pregnant for fifteen seconds.

" _Our child_ has forgiven us. I cannot believe our child has forgiven us. It astounds me that our child has absolved me. I'm awarded with something I don't deserve."

And then,

" _Our child_ is set on seeing you." 

He tried not to bother too much with the fantasy. Hope was not a luxury. Hope was a tease.

* * *

 “Well." The guard glared.

“I suppose my time has come."

“Correct."

If he was their prized hostage to ensure Wren’s obedience, what had his family done? Did they execute them? Ursa, Tristan, family, what have you done… was it for the better?

Damn him, he had hoped for them to  _do whatever_. Prayed in his old quarters that Clan Wren, these warriors with weapons and militant power, would do something along the lines of "doing something," as Sabine begged them to do. But now he feared for them. He saw Ursa limp on her throne and Tristan sprawled out on the steps of his would-be throne. 

“Well, looks like all Wrens were corrupt after all."

"What?"

"All thanks to your traitorous Countess."

Countess? Ursa? Sabine? Which one?

"At least you’ll get a nice look at the capital. Enjoy Sundari while it lasts."

Sundari. Where it all begin. Where he was painting the Duchess’s palace, where he left out the protestors of New Mandalorian society when he knew a Clan Wren existed in passing and had yet to looked upon by, and meet eyes with, Ursa Wren.

Ursa. Did they resist? Did they not? Ursa, did you fight back at last? But then that lead to,  _did they gun you down?_

He did begrudge her for not acting against those odds. Yet, now he now feared danger in her possible retaliation, finally lashing out at the great force that drove Sabine away and shattered the mosaic of his family. But he thought of the other Wrens too, that selfless thing Ursa preached about. There was fighting in waiting, in not lifting the weapon, in suppressing the urge for a duel. Perhaps there was fighting too in bowing to one’s enemy? To just breathe a little longer. Having a relative certainty of survival. 

He hated to admit the logistics of the shunning had sense, to buy them time, to let Clan Wren live a little longer. He had always detected the pain within Ursa, whenever she had to call Sabine her "corrupted ex-Countess." He suspected too, that he was her sacrifice too, that she understood there was a price to her decision if that meant her husband no longer acknowledging her.

But even if waiting to strike back allowed them to be bloodless for a while, it would never reverse the poor reaction to Sabine's flight, the withheld support, the maximin callousness toward a child's pursuit of justice, even if her ideal seemed impractical. All while replaying the nights with Ursa, he knew forgiveness would be a long way, for the woman he married, for family, and himself. Himself. He knew when he shunned her in front of Saxon, he had simply did his best, for Tristan too. But now he felt the admission cheapened, like he was trying to excuse himself. It was not comfortable to absolve himself in what he knew was a practical facade before the Empire, for that would condone the damage. Ursa had condemned their daughter for overestimating her family's abilities. For him, Clan Wren could not live up to Sabine's faith, and he included himself in this condemnation. 

The Saxon bagged his face into an abyss and the motions of his footsteps could only be best described as crossing into a labyrinth until he was shoved into another tight space and the floor rumbled.

He was stardust anyway, returning to the site of his origin, to the dimensions he thought he outgrew. But being in this confinement with no shapes, no paint-stains, he considered himself blessed to join Sundari's near-immeasurable dimensions, dents and all.

His only regret was that Ursa, Tristan, Sabine would never have the solace of knowing he made his peace in his final flames. Or maybe they weren’t alive to grieve. Maybe they were waiting for him on the execution grounds. Either alive. Or a heap of ashes.

He had a vision of the countenance of a woman, with gold hair, with his likeness, for he remembered she was no longer the age of a child, no longer the beaming girl at her Initiation. Then he let himself envision the blush of Ursa, then Tristan, and the rest of the Wrens, the late parents who were stardust on Sundari.

Even in his cell, he never gave much thought of afterlives, of Heavens and Hells, of purgatories, of limbos, but he imagined as many heavens as his mind could conjure: Of him falling into his first wedding night into the bed, of him holding Tristan, in his uncorrupted infancy in a then-warless world, to the window to see Krownest, of him assuring the little girl that she could always make new footprints in the snow if hers kept fading out. But he also supposed that because he was martially bound to a warrior, he might meet fallen warriors that his wife knew better than he, and there was an ancient song in the Archives about Clan Wren's lineage, and Ursa was destined to be a few stanzas, and somewhere, he would surface on the stanzas with her, even if the song was only for her.

At least, he left a masterpiece behind:

_On the prison wall, shaped vainly by a utensil, in Mando’a: The Names of Four Wrens._

He didn't need windows to the outside world to know that the dimensions were swallowing him as he floated somewhere in a darkness that would soon open to a blinding light from the outside.

He wasn't sure if his feet were ready to touch the ground again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kyr Gehat'ik_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> End of a Story


End file.
